Redcoats and Rebels
by HawkFrost24
Summary: This is a historic Hiccstrid AU that takes place during the American Revolutionary War. Major Henry Haddock of the Royal Army finds himself falling in love with a tavern girl. A beautiful blonde headed woman who's loyalties will be tested. As the war rages on and the nation tears itself apart at the seams, will she die a patriot or do the unthinkable and marry a Redcoat?
1. Chapter I

Redcoats and Rebels

She looked at him sitting there, in the corner, back to the wall facing the door. Relaxed as if he didn't have a care in the world as if the colonies weren't embroiled in a war. He was a most peculiar gentleman. While his fellow officers and the enlisted men tried to hold an increasing amount of liquor, he was content to sit there, in the exact same chair, and draw in his book. He didn't make trouble, didn't openly fraternize with some of the… less reputable women. Well mannered and cultured, he rarely raised his voice. His eyes were a piercing green, seeming to cut through and analyze everything that managed to attract his attention. His hair was regulation length, trousers and shirt pressed and sharp enough to cut meat.

When he did speak, his voice was gentle and surprisingly caring. Not rough and guttural like so many others, but it also held a sense of power that seemed to be lurking beneath the surface. Like a predatory crocodile lying in wait to snap at an unassuming gazelle. A very serious man of perhaps late 20s, he had crinkle lines around his eyes that suggested he often laughed and smiled. His hair was auburn brown with a single braid to the side and down of his head. This was odd only if you didn't know the man and what his occupation was in His Majesty's Army.

His name was Henry Haddock, major Henry Haddock. Chief of intelligence British Army under the command of General Clinton. His intelligence network had netted the British several victories, some small but as time went on far larger and of greater importance. In fact, just last month, he orchestrated the raid that had cost the rebels 100 muskets, 300 cannon shells, 5 canons, and 200 pouches of gunpowder. A near-crippling blow to the northeastern front that allowed the British to secure New York and its ports. Cutting off aid to rebel forces and forcing them into retreat.

It was a blow that the so-called Patriots were still recovering from. The British were using this opportunity to launch several skirmishes into rebel territory, hoping to destroy supply lines and weapon caches. And who brought Clinton the intelligence necessary to launch these raids? None other than the man sitting before her, sipping at his tea and drawing in his book.

The sounds of a drunken solider falling out of his chair and his companions laughing raucously shifted her gaze from him momentarily. Stifling a groan she grabbed a towel and a bucket and headed over before their high-pitched whines for assistance could be heard.

Dropping to her knees she began scrubbing the floor, her face crinkled in disgust as these slovenly drunks. As she was scrubbing she could feel the eyes of the soldiers on her, that too disgusted her. But she could ignore it, in their current state of inebriation they were no more harmful than a petulant toddler.

She felt a hand grab her backside and give it a hard pinch, "O! Sweetheart. You look rather good on your knees."

It took her a moment to process the audacity of the man. When she did, she looked at him, his repulsive grin and promptly threw the bucket of swill and vomit she had been cleaning into his face.

His reaction was…explosive. He stuttered angrily and kicked back his chair as the laughter in the room reached a crescendo.

"Why you little Cu-" he snarled and lunged for her, the back of his hand connecting solidly with her jaw.

An arm shot out and gripped his forearm tightly enough to elicit a groan of pain from the soldier. Whirling around he shouted, "Unhand me-" he inhaled sharply and went rigid.

Gripping his arm was Major Haddock, his green eyes cold with fury. "You were saying something, private?" His voice hadn't gone higher than that of normal conversation but the ice in it was enough to send shivers down her spine.

"N-no sir major." The private swallowed nervously.

The major simply stared into the man's eyes as if he were a dead deer and he was contemplating where to start cutting. Coming to his conclusion, he spoke.

"Apologize to Miss Hofferson this instant."

"But sir-" the soldier's words died off as the look in Haddock's eyes went several degrees colder. Even she flinched when he spoke again.

"I don't believe I stuttered solider. At. Once." The poor fool bobbed his head up and down like a schoolboy.

"My sincere apologies miss Hofferson." With a look of disgust, the major shoved the soldier away.

"I'm placing him in your responsibility. See to it he gets back to his barracks or you'll all be spending some quality time in the brig."

His squad-mates hurriedly dragged him away and out the door, leaving the major to watch them walk away in apparent disappointment. He turned around to see the entire room staring at him in expectation.

"Army business, go back to your drinks," he said with a polite nod and a smile. The chorus of bar patrons quickly resumed.

"Are you quite all right miss Hofferson?" The care in his eyes must be fake, but it was remarkably well done.

"Yes, thank you. Your intervention was quite timely."

He gently tilted her head with his fingertips and make a clicking noise. "Here, sit. I'll get ice."

He walked off before she could answer that it wasn't necessary. She took a deep breath and tried to steady her breathing. _It's fine, everything is fine. It's not like you'll be sitting across from a member of British High Command._ She focused on her breathing. In and out, in and out. Slowly, she brought her lungs under control and her breathing steadied.

A few minutes later he appeared carrying a few chunks of ice on a napkin. He selected one and with tenderness placed it against her cheek. She shivered and her breathing hitched, from the cold no doubt.

"You don't have to worry about something like this ever happening again. You have my word as a gentleman." He gave her a smile that she found somewhat, shy? What did he have to be shy about?

"Thank you" she returned his smile. This man was a Briton, she knew that, but she couldn't help but like him, here, being so gentle with her.

"My name is Henry, Major Henry Haddock at your service." He gave her another smile, a full one this time. She found herself staring into his eyes and _really_ looking this time. Licking her lips it was her turn to be shy.

"I know, my name is Astrid. Astrid Hofferson."


	2. Chapter II

**I wanted to thank you guys for all your support on the first chapter! it really means alot and I love reading your reviews. This chapter is longer than the first, let me know if you like it that way' or if you prefer shorter chapters"**

 **\- Hawkfrost**

She was watching him again. He could see her in the reflection of his cup, staring at him rather intensely. He smiled at that. He had been coming here for about 3 months now and he hadn't been able to summon up the courage to do more than mumble greetings to this woman. Which was rather humorous considering his day job. He focused back on his drawing, for this was the difficult part. The eyes and the slope of the nose could so drastically alter a persons face he always took great care to get it exactly right. After a few minutes of intense concentration, he blew off the dust from his drawing and gave it an appraising look.

The eyes were fierce and intelligent, those lips formed into a wicked smile that even in paper form threatened to stop his heart. Her hair impeccably done in a braid that stopped a little below her shoulder. She had a light dusting of freckles that he had a rather intense desire to kiss. He peered at it, this drawing of the woman that owned his soul and didn't even know it. It was the most peculiar thing, he had never felt this way for a woman before. When he woke, he could swear she was lying beside him, when he dreamt, it was of her. When he wasn't focusing on matters of state, his brain would automatically flow to thoughts of her, what she was doing. It was maddening.

With a great effort, he gently laid down the drawing and took a deep breath. It was time, he shifted in his seat so that he could look at the bar, look for the woman who held his very heart in her hands. He blinked. Sh-she wasn't there. Then he heard it, the sounds of drunken sailors and alcohol-induced laughter. He turned the other direction just in time to see a soldier's fist collide with her jaw.

In one smooth movement, he flew across the room and gripped the man's forearm, yanking it mid-air. The soldier's startled expression was most satisfying as was his attempt to speak. A violent twisting of his arm ended that soon enough. After the soldier had apologized and been led out, he gently took hold of her face. Even here, in this room full of drunks and patrons, surrounded by the musty odor of food, ale, and sweat, despite having on a grease-stained apron and smelling of vomit, she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Gently, his fingers traced the tender slope of her jawline, and surely he must be imagining things because she seemed to shudder before him. Taking her hand in his he led her to a table where he left her to fetch some ice. It was only after he was chopping the ice off the block he realized he had done almost all of that on auto-pilot. _Sloppy Henry._ With a shake of the head, he returned to where she was waiting and gently pressed the ice to her face.

"You won't have to worry about something like that ever happening again. You have my word as a gentleman." Being so close to her, feeling her body shift as she breathed, touching her and realizing she wouldn't dissipate like she always did in his dreams caused him to give something of a shy smile.

God must have been smiling at him, because she returned the smile, genuinely. And by God! He had to consciously instruct his lungs to resume breathing.

"My name is Henry, Major Henry Haddock at your service."

"I know. My name is Astrid, Astrid Hofferson."

They stayed like that, staring at each other before the melting ice caused Henry to chuckle and remove it from her cheek.

"Sorry about that, I wasn't paying attention." He brushed the water off her face with his thumb.

"Really sir, you've been much too kind."

"Nonsense, one the soldiers here, a soldier that the king sent to protect you and your fellow subjects from these repulsive rebels struck you. The least I can do is see to your injury. Oh, what would you like done to him?"

Astrid had to force herself to remain impassive. _Repulsive rebels?! Who does this arrogant prick think he is? Oh, of course. He's a Brit._ "What do you mean, what do I want to be done with him?"

The look he gave her sent a chill through her body that had nothing to do from the ice. "He struck you, behavior like that will not be tolerated, not by any soldiers to whom I am a superior."

He seemed greatly disturbed by this incident. Why she couldn't figure out. What concern does a Brit officer have with a barmaid? Besides, it's not like the colonies are at war with England because She had rejected a dinner invite. Taking a deep breath she responded.

"Really sir, I don't want to be any trouble. I'd just as happily let you punish him as you see fit."

He gave her curious look but nodded, "as you wish, m'lady."

She felt her lips twitch into a smile on their own accord hearing him address her as such. _Damn this man!_

He took a deep breath after looking at her for a bit as if he were wrestling to a conclusion. "Could I trouble m'lady for a platter of food? Doling out punishment on errant children does tend to build up one's appetite."

She let out a dry chuckle and nodded, a little sad, though she didn't know why. "Of course sir, right away." She got up and headed back towards the bar

He called out after her, "And two sets of silverware please, I'm hoping for a guest." She nodded that she had heard.

Once she rounded the corner she wiped her face off with a rag and studiously ignored the look she was getting from her boss, Mr. Whitman.

"Are you crazy?!" His whisper was harsher than it needed to be. "What the devils are you doing talking to him?"

Astrid had to struggle to control her temper. "In case you hadn't noticed, I didn't exactly fall in his lap. Or was I simply to cower before the man that hit me?"

She put extra emphasis on those last two words. She took pleasure in watching him shrink back.

"No, no of course not. I'm sorry, for not coming to your aid. But this is a dangerous game. If he finds out who you really are, he'll see to it that you hang."

That statement hit home, hard. She swallowed and nodded. "Yes, but if he thinks of me as a friendly face, he might be more willing to say things within my earshot. Things that might help drum up business."

She used the passphrase for 'gathering intel'. He thought about it for a few seconds and nodded ever so slightly. Gathering the food, she went back to his table.

"Here you are sir, one New York lunch and two sets of silverware. Do you know when your friend will be joining you?"

He gave her a crooked smile that caused her heart to speed up slightly, "Now actually. I was hoping you could join me for lunch?" The question took her off guard.

She wasn't expecting anything of the sort. Which made her angry. _He thinks I'm some silly girl tripping over her feet to sleep with him, doesn't he?_ She was going to deny it on impulse, just to show this, this man that she wasn't a girl to be bullied into fancying. As she prepared to shut him down, she paused at the expression on his face. It wasn't demanding or overbearing, it was hopeful and gentle. Could he really want to have lunch with her? Yes, he would.

"I would love to." The smile she was rewarded with made her happy for some reason.

He got up and pulled her chair out for her.

"Thank you."

He nodded politely and returned to his own seat.

After a nervous pause, she began cutting into the meat. "So, how did you end up working in this tavern?"

She swallowed her morsel of food, or rather she tried to. It suddenly hardened and grew in size while still working its way down her throat. She sipped her ale and smiled forcefully.

"It wasn't by choice I assure you. Um, my father was killed during the battle of Saratoga."

"Ah, regrettable." Despite it being only a cover story, her anger grew at this man who so casually cast aside her fake father's death. _Didn't they have any emotions at all? No, they don't. And that's why they're the enemy._ He motioned for her to continue.

"And my mother passed away last winter due to illness."

She expected a similar response to what he had given for her 'fathers' death. Instead, he placed down his fork and stopped eating. He looked at her with deep pain and sadness behind his eyes.

"That truly is a pity. I'm sorry, may God welcome her into his loving embrace."

She stared at him in surprise. That wasn't what she was expecting. Then, he was back to his normal self.

"After that, I came to New York. My father was friends with and he gave me a job. He and my father were close so he was happy enough to help." She shrugged.

He nodded thoughtfully and stopped eating. Wiping his mouth he simply gazed at her for several moments. "I have to say, something about your mannerism is most familiar. Have we met somewhere before?"

She prided herself on not reacting visibly other than a slight twitch of her finger. "New York is a small city, perhaps you've seen me running errands or something of the sort."

Her instructors had drummed several things into her head, first of them being that lies must be easily remembered and descriptively vague. This man had seen her before, 6 months prior he had led a small incursion of British soldiers to destroy a resupply camp, it was just bad luck she happened to be on her way out with her new assignment. She was sure he hadn't gotten anything more than a glimpse of her. But it would be enough to nag him, so, she provided an alternative. He had simply seen her around town.

He nodded again, eyes never leaving her face. When he spoke again his voice was much more serious. "You know there was something I intended to ask you, about you and your relationship with Mr. Whitman over there."

His eyes seemed to bore into her and she could feel the sweat building at the base of her neck. Forcing herself to remain relaxed, she white-knuckled the knife she was holding and smiled amiably at him. _Damn! Damn! Damn!_


	3. Chapter III

**You guys continue to blow me away with all the support you've given this story. I also wanted to know I read every single one of your comments and I love hearing from you guys! This chapter is a little shorter than the last, but from this point forward the story begins to expand. I hope you enjoy.**

 **\- Hawkfrost**

 _There's something odd about this woman._ The thought came to him like a tendril of smoke. Gently wrapping itself around his brain until he could no longer ignore it. He had seen the reaction Mr. Whitman had when she returned to the bar but he simply chalked it up to the general jitters people had towards officers. But here, having her before him he couldn't shake the feeling that there was another layer to her he wasn't seeing. He studied her carefully, the way her eyes seemed to flit around the room every so often, the way she gripped her knife, the way the sun made her hair glow, how full her lips-, he mentally shook his head. _Damnit boy, concentrate._ He took a deep breath and refocused his mind. He concentrated on the circle of the face. The eyes, the bridge of the nose, the mouth, and the forehead.

These were useful in identifying someone accurately. It's used became these features can't really be changed or altered. _So why does she look so familiar?_ He racked his brain trying to figure it out, she said it was because he had seen her around town, but that didn't feel right. A memory was hovering in the recesses of his mind, skirting the edge of cognizant. Yes…something to do…with the forest? The thought slipped away before he could latch onto it. He looked at her now, hoping her presence might jog more of his memory, but his thought collapsed as surely was wooden house would during an earthquake. Her smile was angelic, filling him with an intense burst of happiness and warmth. It purged all other thoughts from his mind.

"For the life of me, I can't remember what it was." He smiled into his drink and looked resumed eating.

He couldn't have seen the almost imperceptible sag of relief that Astrid had done. She placed her knife down and straightened her dress to hide the fact her hands were shaking. Once she was sure her appendages were again under control of her brain, she resumed eating as well.

"So major, you know a little about me? Tell me, how does your wife bear your prolonged absences?"

He gave her that crooked smile again and swallowed before answering.

"Quite well I would imagine, considering I'm not married." He wiggled his eyebrows at her in a way that caused her to snort in laughter. A snort. An honest to God snort. _Where did that come from?_ Which she quickly covered up by clearing her throat.

"Really? I would've expected such a ravishing gentleman such as yourself to be betrothed or married by now."

He leaned back in his chair and sipped at his cup of tea. He seemed completely at ease as if he had all the time in the world for her.

"When I marry, I want it to be to a woman I can love until the day my heart stops. To marry a woman who's smile burns away the days' fatigue, whose laughter I pause to listen to. Capturing it like a priceless recording."

Astrid's attention was rapturous now. The way he described this mystery woman was like nothing she'd ever heard. Especially not in the company she kept.

"Until I find that woman, I shall remain single. I've seen to many people suffering in marriages that are nothing more than official agreements. No love, no passion, no joy. I cant imagine a worse punishment than that. An eternity of pain." With a shrug, he sipped his cup and placed it down.

"And you, no suitors in your life?" He gave her a smile that was doing very unladylike things to her thoughts.

She smirked at him, it was quite a good smirk if she said so herself. He agreed, or at least parts of him agreed. He had to shift in his seat slightly to get comfortable again.

"No. Or rather, none that I deemed worth my while. Besides, it's not like people are tripping over themselves to marry an orphan with no prospects. Least of an orphaned girl."

He frowned at her, "I shouldn't think anyone would think of you so."

It was the way he said it that gave her pause, it was such a gentle comment. He wasn't simply being polite when he said it, he really meant that. Somehow their hands touched. His lying over hers, gently drawing circles with his thumb. The warmth that flooded her body sent tingles all the way to her toes. His hand was warm and calloused. They were the hands of a man who had earned what he had through strength and determination, through a lifetime of hard work. But here, now, he was going out of his way to be gentle, going out of his way not to intimidate her. That struck her as so kind, that she couldn't help but smile at him.

They continued to gaze at each other, the seconds seeming to ebb and flow into an eternity. She looked into his green eyes and saw herself. She could be happy with this man. Mother his children, be a proper English lady, have a house in the countryside with servants attending to her every need. She could stop being lonely, having a husband who would love her, both physically and emotionally. She could see it all unfolding in the vibrant flecks of his eyes.

 _A lovely idea, but one that could never be._ The thought landed through her consciousness like a knife through flesh. She knew the voice was right, agreed with it even, but she didn't want it to be, at least, not right now. _Stop it. Stop. It. You know this will never work. End this, now._ With a supreme effort of will, she let go of the fantasy and of him.

"Thank you for your hospitality kind sir. But I really must be getting back to work."

Her voice was stilted and lacking the warmth it had held only a few short minutes earlier. He noticed, for his eyes filled with a pain that caused her gut to wrench violently of its own accord, and guilt that she knew better to feel, flooded her being. And then, it was gone; so quickly she almost doubted it had been there. His face relaxed and he withdrew his arm with nothing more than a brief exhale.

He drained his cup and stared into it for a few seconds, pondering something. Reaching his conclusions, he placed the cup done and looked at her. All traces of sadness gone, in fact, there didn't seem to be much of anything in his eyes now.

"Of course m'lady. I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome. My sincere compliments to your chef, Mr. Whitman, and his most beautiful waitress." She flinched.

His voice was so dispassionately polite, so formal. He spoke as if he were talking about the weather with a stranger. And for some reason she hated it; she also hated this man for making her hate it. He laid down a few bills, rose, grabbed his book, nodded at her and Mr. Whitman in a most gentlemanly fashion, and left; leaving her wanting him to stay.


	4. Chapter IV

**New year new chapter! You guys continue to blow me away will all the support you've given this story. I wanted to run an experiment past you guys. When I write I do so with music, it helps me set the tone. If you'd like, go back and re-read the chapters listening to one of the songs below.**

 **Never be the same (Camila Cabello), Beautiful Pain (Eminem), Prince Igor: Polovtsian Dances (Alexander Borodin), Serenade - Schubert (Yehuda Hanani).**

 **I'll see you in the next one ✌️**

 **\- Hawkfrost**

The look on her face is what confused him the most. He had seen it when he was collecting his things. She had deliberately shut him out but had the nerve to look hurt when he didn't grovel for her affections like some weak dog. _Who the hell was she to presume that he was some weak-willed thing to be tossed about at random?_ The anger that sparked in his chest flared white hot and intense for several seconds before burning itself out. With effort, he brought his breathing back under control. He rubbed his palms against his face in an effort to regain control of himself. His feelings for her were clouding his judgment. He inhaled deeply for several moments. As soon as he was satisfied that he was again in control, he climbed into his carriage. A sharp nod to his driver and they were off.

He glanced out the viewport at the city of New York. It was a thriving atmosphere, filled with merchants and shops, and lawyers, news, and so much more. It was somewhat beautiful he mused to himself. _If it weren't for those damn rebels it would have been an ideal colonial city. But that's why you're here, aren't you? So that you can stamp these traitors out once and for all._ He chuckled to himself, and if pigs could fly…

As the carriage bounced gently on the cobbled streets, he gazed at everything and everyone while never really focusing on any one thing. The biggest downside to being in intelligence and counter-intelligence was that you were never certain of anything. And anything could be found if you looked hard enough for it. The trap many had fallen into was inventing conspiracy where there was none. Twisting irrelevant facts and tidbits into a picture that suited their bias. His instructors had warned him that intel gathering was like putting a puzzle together when you didn't have all the pieces and were never quite sure what the picture actually was. It was frustrating, time-consuming work that required near constant vigilance for something that almost certainly wouldn't occur and inane amounts of patience.

The main problems was intelligence, or more accurately, what to do with all they got. The British Army raked in such a massive amount of intel from soldiers, merchants, spies, wannabe spies, and the like that it was a monumental task to collate and sort it all. The biggest problem was sifting through all the crap to find the small diamond in the proverbial trough. Operations had been made and blown because someone at the Manor had noticed something out of the ordinary. The raid that had so crippled Washington's war effort had been based on intel that they had had in their possession for 5 weeks before the connection had been made. No one had noticed it because in the sake of operational security no one knew everything. It was unbelievable how bloated the process could be but there simply was no way to streamline it.

Your basic analyst didn't need to know everything, it would simply clutter the issue. All they needed to know was what they had been assigned to know. Supervisory officers were around to cross check the work of subordinates and identify patterns and things of interest, not that it always worked. _And now? What is your biggest threat now?_ He knew the answer to that, it was the other side of his job. Spies around the world are all alike. Paranoid and twitchy bastards. Henry had first been forced to contemplate the possibility of Reb spies a few months back. A British merchant ship traveling under the guise of neutral interest had been boarded and sunk by enemy soldiers. Somehow they had discovered the Royal Navy had been using ships like these to transport weapons, munitions, and food behind enemy lines to support the effort of loyalist forces. They stole the supplies, killed the crew, and sunk the ship, it was an all around rather embarrassing defeat for the navy.

But the enemy had been sloppy. It was the most acute of ironies in the intelligence game that the truly useful intel could hardly ever be used. Information that was truly operational was often only known to a small group of people, and as such dangerous to use, for fear of compromising the source. This was incredibly infuriating because it meant British intelligence had to sanitize the intel before it could be used, and they had no guarantee the information was still effective once the process was complete. Several high-value targets had been identified but been allowed to live because capturing or killing them would compromise carefully placed operatives. He sighed audibly and rubbed his temples. This was not helping his already sour mood.

The carriage pulled up to the Swan manor. It served as both the headquarters for British intelligence in America and as his personal residence. When the guards saw his approach they crisply saluted, salutes that he returned with mechanistic precision. He walked into his house and removed his jacket. His servant, he refused to keep slaves it was a deplorable practice that insulted the very idea of humanity, Mary, and continued into the house. He walked up the stairs to the second floor and opened the door. There were 10 rows of tables with 4 analysts per table organized in rows throughout the room. Supervisory officers were floating back and forth making sure everything was operating smoothly.

"Lieutenant, report." The lieutenant came to attention before proceeding.

"Nothing as of yet sir. We took note of the code phrase in yesterday's New York Times, but we have yet to identify the courier."

The lieutenant handed over the edition and Henry looked at the advertisement in the top right-hand corner. It was for two cases of Courvoisier Cognac. Whenever the enemy had new intel it would post that advertisement in the newspaper. They had caught onto this quite by accident, something that irritated Henry but couldn't be helped. A captain had gone into the shop looking to purchases one of the cases only to find that they were already 'sold out'. Apparently, someone had come in not one hour earlier and bought both cases. When this happened twice in a row the captain took to retelling the story over cigars while within earshot Henry. This immediately caught the intelligence officers ear.

Ever since they had been watching the tavern more closely waiting for another advertisement to be placed. They had caught a break one month prior. Again the ad was placed and again when they inquired about the cases they were sold out. One hour prior. Only this time they knew that no one had come before them, a five-man surveillance team had put that story to bed. And now here they were again, another advertisement.

"Place a team on standby to watch the tavern. Also, call in a team from the Campus. We'll need a full surveillance package if we're going to catch them this time. I want eyes on the tavern owner and his newspaper friend at all times, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Henry nodded at him and began to turn away when the lieutenant spoke again. "And what about the barmaid sir?"

He paused and turned back around, "what about her lieutenant?"

The young man looked at him with a somewhat curious expression of his face.

"Shouldn't we place her under surveillance as well. As a maid wouldn't she have unfettered accesses to the patrons. This would give her a unique ability to overhear a conversation. Which could be pieced together to form actionable intelligence."

Henry knew he was right, had it been anyone else he would've commend the young man for his initiative, but it wasn't anyone else. She wasn't just anyone else.

"Not a bad idea lieutenant, proceed." The words seemed reluctant to come out of his mouth.

"Yes, sir."

As he watched him walkway, Henry couldn't help but feel like something significant had just been set into motion, but as for what he knew not.


	5. Chapter V

**We've broken 1,200 views! That's incredible! Here's another chapter for you guys. Like I mentioned earlier, it's going to get more serious as the chapter progress. Let me know what you think in the comments, I love hearing how you guys think the story will end.**

 **-Hawkfrost**

Astrid smoothed her skirt, stood up, and began cleaning the table. The emotions that were whipping through her, she didn't know how to process. It was all just too much for her. She knew she couldn't feel this way for him, it would never work. If they ever found out about her…other job, she'd be hung for high treason. _I know this will never work, but do I want it to work?_ She shook her head and headed back toward the kitchen. She deposited the dirty dishes into the basin and grabbed a rag to wipe her hands, partly because they were dirty and also to hide their shaking from her approaching boss.

"Astrid?" His voice was cautious.

"Are we going to have a problem? He's not going to be a weakness, is he? Or have you forgotten how you got into this fight?"

She stared at him dumbly, her brain not processing the audacious stupidity of his question. When her brain finally pieced together his accusation her vision was colored red.

"How _dare_ you question my dedication."

Her voice was dripping with barely controlled rage, her breathing was coming fast and hard, like a track horse after a race.

He took a couple steps back and raised his hands in a calming gesture.

"I know I know. I'm sorry."

She pulled off her apron and contemplated strangling him with it, but realized if she did she would lose her job. With apparent reluctance, she threw it on the hook. _Great, now your temples are throbbing._ With a sigh, she sat down at the table and focused on her breathing. Rubbing her head she closed her eyes. He sat down across from her and cleared his throat.

"What?" He flinched at her tone.

"Nothing, it's just that my sister wrote me."

She paused at that. He had just initiated the first phase of a challenge phrase and his choice of words indicated high-level importance. She flicked her eyes up to look at him.

"Really? How's the farm been doing? It must be difficult with her husband's broken arm." _Is it really that important?_

He stared back at her evenly. "Quite well actually, Matthew's been pitching in. In fact, my sister thinks he'd like to see you again." _Yes, it's that important._

Astrid sighed and straightened up. "I suppose I could stop by, I am rather fond of your sister, and it would be nice to see him again." _Tonight then._

 _00000_

Henry rolled his shoulders and proceeded out the door and up the steps to the third floor, his personal floor. Closing the door behind him he walked to the cabinet and pulled out a glass and a bottle. He needed it, this was going to be a long day and he could already feel the stress behind his right eye. He was just about to take a sip when he heard the floorboard creak slightly. He stopped and placed the drink down and quietly picked up a knife that he'd left lying on the counter.

"Leave it alone Henry, it's just me." The voice spoke with bored resignation.

He turned around to see General Clinton standing in his living room, resplendent in his dress uniform.

"General, what a surprise." He smiled at him and placed the knife back on the counter.

"Tell me, Henry, how go things on this side of the pond?" He looked out the window at the city below.

"Not much has changed since you made your report in London, the same people hate us and the same people love us."

"A rather negative chap aren't you?" He sat down on his couch and crossed his legs.

Henry walked over and handed him a drink.

"Thank you. So tell me Henry, are there any women left for us or have you sampled them all?"

The general raised his eyebrows drawing another laugh from Henry.

"What can I say general? Can I help it if women find me irresistible?" He shrugged in a way that said, what could you do?

The general snorted and sipped at his brandy. "I seem to remember a woman who could stand against the waves of your charm. In fact, isn't she how you got your nickname, Hiccup?"

Henry sputtered indignantly.

"That was an anomaly and years ago general! Besides, I was fighting off a cold that day. Nothing more."

There were a few seconds of silence before they both erupted into laughter. The general and he had been friends for years. They had fought wars together on just about every country within the Kings domain. From pacification efforts in Ireland to expansion operations in Burma. General Clinton had a few rough edges, he could be arrogant and ill-tempered, which is why Henry was there to straighten him out; point his aggression in a more precise direction. After knocking back the rest of his drink he set it down, it was time for business.

"So tell me Major, how goes your operations? I spoke to his Majesty, he was most impressed with your previous operations."

Henry swirled his drink in his cup and then drained it. Setting it on the small placement mat he looked up at the general.

"Thank you, sir, one can never have too many friends in Whitehall."

He stood and walked over to his bookcase. Pulling open the glass doors he selected a decrepit looking book. Holding it so that the binding was facing him, he hooked his fingernail at the bottom and popped open a small slot. Within the slot held a key. He removed the key, replaced the binding, and returned the book to its case.

"Really Henry, don't you think that's just a bit much?"

"No general I don't. And neither will you once you read the information this key unlocks."

Walking over to his desk he inserted the key and turned it, opening a drawer. He pulled out a letter wrapped in leather cloth. Closing the drawer, he returned the couch.

"General before I can disclose the contents of this letter you have to swear to not discuss its contents to anyone else without consulting me first."

Clinton didn't like to be dictated to by a subordinate, but when Henry spoke like this it was usually over information that was worth far more than a minor slight. So, he nodded.

"You have my word." Henry nodded and handed over the letter.

The general took his time reading it. Once he hit the middle part his face changed and he sat straight up. His eyes stared flicking back forth across the letter and he began murmuring softly. Once he was done he leaned back and stared at Henry, saying nothing.

"I-is this trustworthy?"

"It could be, I haven't responded yet, I wanted to discuss it with you first."

"By God himself Henry. This could win us the war!" The general was excited now.

Her name was Peggy Shippen. She was Philadelphia elite that Henry had come into contact with last year. They had met at a dinner party to celebrate a British victory. She was captivated by the allure of his uniform and job description. That wasn't to say it was easy, there weren't many women with a mind as sharp as Peggy.

"My God man, what do you _do_ with these women?" Clinton had poured himself another drink and had swallowed half the glass.

"A gentleman never betrays a woman's confidence. Let's just say that she didn't spend all that time on her knees praying."

Clinton shook his head laughing, laughing so hard he had to place down his drink. "I tell you, some men feast while others starve. Miss Peggy Shippen, little miss innocent Peggy Shippen renown for her virtue falls prey to Major Haddock's wily ways."

He said those last few words between laughs. Henry smiled at him and sipped at his drink again. His conscience wondered vaguely if he should feel bad about what he had done to that sweet girl, what he was doing to this girl. He remembered the morning after, she had drawn a heart in the dust on his shoe. All he felt then was sadness, because he knew he had her and it was nothing more than a cover. When he had washed himself that morning he wasn't particularly fond of the reflection he saw in the mirror. It was no matter, every agent knew there was plenty of time to reflect on what you've done once the jobs over. She wasn't a person, she was a mission.

Satisfied that he had no reason to be guilty he turned his attention back to his general.

"Henry, you get this girl. No matter what it cost. You get this done."

"Yes sir, I'll start as soon as we're finished here."

The general shook his head and chuckled again. "Benedict Arnold. Damn."


	6. Chapter VI

**You guys continue to blow me away with all the support you've shown this story. It's been out for less than three weeks and we're almost at 2,000 views! Incredible! As long as you guys continue to have an interest in this story, I'll keep the chapters coming.**

 **-Hawkfrost**

"Oh, before I forget, I've placed the Loyalist Tavern under surveillance. We intercepted a rebel transmission and we're waiting on the courier. Once we bag him we can work our way up the chain."

General Clinton pondered that for a moment. The Loyalist Tavern wasn't just another inn, it was a vital part of British interest in the area. The tavern was owned by a Mr. Samuel Charleston. He owned both the tavern and the small newspaper mill in the basement. They had quite an unusual but mutually profitable business. The British army would launch a raid or an incursion and in exchange for exclusive rights to publishing, Mr. Charleston allowed them to use his tavern as a cover for all sorts of covert activities. If they wanted the enemy to think they were in one location so they could attack another, they would simply tell Mr. Charleston and he would print the disinformation.

Any contraband or loot that the army brought back could be 'sanitized' through this store as well. The war was expensive and the war budget didn't always cover the cost of operations vital to success. The Seven Years War had brought the Crown vast amounts of territory at the cost of about all their money. So, General Clinton and Major Henry improvised. A few months back they had acquired 10 slaves from a rebel camp, using Mr. Charleston they were able to sell them for 1,200 pounds. A very hefty sum that was transferred to the discretionary fund that they used to bankroll operations that no one else needed to know about. Three weeks back it was iron ore seized from a Rebel camp, next month it would be crops seized from rebel sympathizers, and so forth and so forth. This business venture needed to be protected at all cost.

"Be gentle with him Henry, we need him."

"I know. Our chaps will be discreet. That's what they pay us for after all."

"Good. Anything else I need to know before I head off." The general had stood and collected his things.

"No, sir. That was all."

"Okay. You have my permission to verify the new information you've received, any way you can. Once you get an update, let me know at once."

"Of course general."

They shook hands and he left, leaving Henry to sit alone on his couch wondering if this might be the beginning of the end of this dreadful war.

 _00000_

She was home now. She had left the tavern at the end of her shift and by the stars, she was exhausted. Dealing with those goatish fly-bitten codpieces taxed not her intelligence but her patiences. She peeled back her curtains and glanced up and down the street, just because she couldn't see anything out of the ordinary doesn't mean it wasn't there. _Damnit_! She hated this part of intelligence work. The only way to effectively counter against counter-intelligence was to suspect everything and everyone. But that wasn't healthy or plausible, she couldn't kill someone just because their paths crossed more than twice in one week, and she couldn't up and stop trusting people without good reason.

As she looked out of the window at the moonlight street, she saw nothing of concern. She saw houses with lamps still flickering, she could hear the low murmurs of voices, the sounds of laughter. The sounds of family. No one out there looked like a spy, but that was it, wasn't it? If there were any spies following her, they wouldn't be very good at their job if they shouted it from the rooftops. With a final glance, she made her decision. She blew out her candle and sat in the chair by the door. She waited approximately 20 minutes before quietly making her way downstairs. Once she was out on the street she pulled her hood over her head and followed the road out of town. As she walked she paid attention to the sounds around her, she listened for anything out of the ordinary. The sounds of irregular breathing, hoof beats, iron scraping against stone, any one of these things could signify the presence of a follower.

She heard nothing, which did little to put her at ease. _You're getting paranoid._ She laughed to herself, wasn't that a part of the job description? She shook her head to clear it and continued on her journey. The route was one of several she pre-memorized. She would meet the courier at a pre-designated drop site. Usually, the courier would simply drop the message and leave, that way should one of them be discovered no one could give information on the other. But tonight was different, someone in the High Command wanted the information to be delivered personally and with further instructions.

The sounds of the forest always comforted her. Her feet crunching through the leaves, the sounds of owls hooting, the smell of wood and fresh grass, it all helped to put her at ease. No matter what happened, she could always come out to these woods to work out some stress, who was she fooling, rage, on a few unlucky trees. She smiled as she passed one in particular, the tree was a tree no more. In her rage, she had smashed her ax straight through and created a hole in the middle of the damn thing. She traced her fingers along the opening, remembering that day, and the pain and hatred she had felt. She sniffed and blinked rapidly. _It's done, thinking about it won't change anything. Move it, soldier._

Without looking back, she kept on walking. Her contact would arrive via boat and dock on the shore of the lake. She had to be there at a specific time and if she didn't show he would take off. She was so glad she had deigned not to wear a traditional skirt and instead had put on a shorter one with leggings underneath. This outfit gave me far greater mobility and allowed her to run at her full speed. Thick boots and a knife at her belt with a reassuring weight completed the set. She fingered the edge of her skirt while she knelt behind a shrub bush. Training said she should always check for a tail. There were many ways to go about doing this, one way was to use reflective surfaces to check for faces you had seen one too many times or people who seemed to be paying more than the usual attention to you. That, of course, didn't help her in her current situation. A second option was the one she was currently employing.

Find a hiding spot with a clear view of the path you've just come from and wait to see if anyone comes along. Her instructors had always said this one was one of the more dangerous options as it forced the target, herself in this case, to remain in a potentially hostile environment. So, she found a comfortable position and waited. And waited. Her senses were on high alert listening and looking for the slightest provocation. She could hear her heart slamming into her rib cage so loudly she was sure every bird in the area must have heard it as well. Her eyes scanned the forest in front of her constantly, looking for shadow movement or anything that could indicate the presence of another human. She continued to wait until it seemed she was going to become one with the plants around her. Then, she slowly disengaged from the bush and stood up.

Careful not to step on any branches, she continued on her path. She was tired, and she was looking forward to making the meet and going home to her nice, war- _Stop!_ She froze instantly. Her heart was beating erratically. The warning had gone off in her brain like a musket shot. She swallowed, failed, and swallowed again. She gently eased herself back down onto the ground and let out a whistle. It was security check mimicked after the Black-capped Chickadee. If any friendlies were out there they would respond with the whistle; if there weren't any friendlies out there it wouldn't give the impression they had been discovered. She waited ten seconds before repeating the whistle and still heard nothing. _Think girl think!_ Her heart was galloping way to fast. She took a deep, shaky breath and tried to focus. _What did you hear?_ She hissed to herself in frustration. She hadn't seen or heard anything, so why had she stopped? What had she missed that her subconscious didn't?

The sweat that had beaded on her forehead was starting to sting her eyes and she wiped it away quickly. As she did, she heard the slightest noise, like someone wasn't carefully brushing a side bush. _Shit!_ Her heart was really pumping now and the pit of her stomach was lead. She forced herself to breathe quieter. The noise didn't repeat itself, whoever had made it was smart enough not to make the same mistake twice.

" _CRACK"_ the sound of the musket going off nearly caused her to jump out of her skin. She bolted and slid down a ravine before her brain had caught up with her muscles. She looked around frantically for where the shot had come from.

"Run! Run! Get away!" His voice was the high pitched shrill of a alarm, common to people who fully understood the danger they're facing.

She hugged the ground and tried to listen to everything at once, she could hear the sounds of footsteps pounding the earth. _One, no, two sets._ She sniffed and shifted, trying to merge into the ground and disappear. She could hear the sounds of branches snapping and rocks being kicked, along with the sounds of heavy breathing.

"Elizabeth, Run!"

There was more running and more noise, then everything fell silent. Nothing but the gentle sounds of the waves lapping against the shore could be heard.

" _CRACK."_ She buried her head into the forest floor and tried to make herself a smaller target. To her horror, she realized that this shot was followed by a gurgled scream, a loud thud, and then silence.


	7. Chapter VII

**I wanted to thank you guys for being so patient with me. College has been stressful, my personal life has been stressful, so I didn't have much time to write. This chapter is longer than most, the first part is a bit of an exposition dump. But that's only because I'm going to be broadening the scope of the war somewhat. Anyways, enjoy!**

 **-Hawkfrost**

Westminster 1778

It was raining again, but then again it was always raining. He let out a disgruntled sigh and proceeded up the steps of Westminster Palace. As he entered the palace doors, he shook off the rain that had been seeping into the folds of his clothes even through his rain jacket. Curse this weather and curse this damned war. The footman took his items and placed them on a rack. He'd been a member of parliament for years now, but the building never stopped taking his breath away. Aside from the Sovereign, this building was the bedrock of the British Empire.

The Parliament of Great Britain was formed in 1707 following the ratification of the Acts of Union by both the Parliament of England and the Parliament of Scotland. The Acts goal was to unify the peninsula into one cohesive government. In doing so, the dissolution of the Scottish parliament was a small price to pay. Much better to have one, single parliament to be the voice of authority than let the islands squabble amongst each other.

This building, the building he now had a seat and a voice in, was an embodiment of both power and history. He took the time to gaze around the room, studying the various pieces of art and admiring the statues. His history lessons started flooding back to him as he walked the halls. Tradition suggests that a Roman temple to Apollo stood here by the River Thames. That temple was supposedly destroyed in an earthquake, and no trace of it remains, if, indeed, it ever existed. As time went on the history became more clear. Especially when it comes to the Saxon period, for we know that a timber church dedicated to St Peter was built here in the 8th century. To distinguish the new church from St Paul's in the center of London, the new church was known as the West Minster, while St Paul's was known as the East Minster. The name was contracted over time until the area around the church became known as Westminster. In the 10th century, Westminster church was re-established as a Benedictine monastery.

In the early years of the 11th century, King Cnut built a royal palace on Thorney Island, a rise of high ground in the River Tyburn. The most influential Saxon king, however, was Edward the Confessor, who founded Westminster Abbey and built a new royal palace beside his great new monastic foundation.

When William the Conqueror came to the throne he used the existing Palace and Abbey as his base of power in London, but it was his son, William Rufus, who began to transform the earlier Saxon palace. William Rufus began building Westminster Hall in 1097 and created the largest royal hall in Europe. The Hall was used as a ceremonial center, for banqueting and entertaining. Over the next few centuries, several of the most important administrative arms of government, such as the Court of Common Plea and the Chancery were established at Westminster Hall. It was not until the 13th century, however, that Westminster was used as the center for parliamentary gatherings.

In fact, it was only after Henry VIII left Westminster Palace for Whitehall in 1512 that Westminster Palace became the permanent home of Parliament. So engrossed was he in his minds history lesson he didn't hear the man calling his name.

"Sir John!" He turned to see a portly gentleman of around fifty striding towards him.

"Ah, Sir William. Forgive me, this building never ceases to amaze."

Sir William gave him a knowing look and then motioned for him to join him in walking.

"It's time. Or would you like to tell His Majesty that you'd like him to wait a moment?"

This drew a bark of laughter from John. "No, one mustn't keep the Crown waiting. Lead on, Sir William."

As they were walking, John recalled the last time His Majesty had addressed parliament. Urging them to send troops to ensure the peaceful suppression of treasonous activity. He could recall the words almost perfectly.

"Whereas many of our subjects in divers parts of our Colonies and Plantations in North America, misled by dangerous and ill designing men, and forgetting the allegiance which they owe to the power that has protected and supported them; after various disorderly acts committed in disturbance of the public peace, to the obstruction of lawful commerce, and to the oppression of our loyal subjects carrying on the same; have at length proceeded to open and avowed rebellion, by arraying themselves in a hostile manner, to withstand the execution of the law, and traitorously preparing, ordering and levying war against us: And whereas, there is reason to apprehend that such rebellion hath been much promoted and encouraged by the traitorous correspondence, counsels and comfort of divers wicked and desperate persons within this realm: To the end therefore, that none of our subjects may neglect or violate their duty through ignorance thereof, or through any doubt of the protection which the law will afford to their loyalty and zeal, we have thought fit, by and with the advice of our Privy Council, to issue our Royal Proclamation, hereby declaring, that not only all our Officers, civil and military, are obliged to exert their utmost endeavors to suppress such rebellion, and to bring the traitors to justice, but that all our subjects of this Realm, and the dominions thereunto belonging, are bound by law to be aiding and assisting in the suppression of such rebellion, and to disclose and make known all traitorous conspiracies and attempts against us our crown and dignity; and we do accordingly strictly charge and command all our Officers, as well civil as military, and all others our obedient and loyal subjects, to use their utmost endeavors to withstand and suppress such rebellion, and to disclose and make known all treasons and traitorous conspiracies which they shall know to be against us, our crown and dignity; and for that purpose, that they transmit to one of our principal Secretaries of State, or other proper officer, due and full information of all persons who shall be found carrying on correspondence with, or in any manner or degree aiding or abetting the persons now in open arms and rebellion against our Government, within any of our Colonies and Plantations in North America, in order to bring to condign punishment the authors, perpetrators, and abetters of such traitorous designs."

If you had asked any member of Parliament at that time none of them would have been able to fully grasp the significance of what was to come next. Who were a few poorly armed rebels to challenge to most powerful army and navy on the planet? Most thought the war would be over quickly. Send in the soldiers, reestablish order, and be done with it. But now, three years in and with no end in sight, the mood in Westminster was anything but hopeful. They were already hemorrhaging money from the seven years war with France if those damned colonists had shown an ounce of loyalty by repaying Great Britain fiscally for protecting them from unwarranted French aggression this war could've been avoided. Now they were further in debt with nothing to show for it but blood and suffering.

00000

Every one of Astrid's muscles was screaming at her to take off running, thankfully her training told her not to. She listened intently for anything that might clue her into where her attacker was located. She thanked God it was dark and the only illumination was via moonlight or this would've been over already. She slowly felt the ground around her and selected a rock the size of her fist. She edged herself up onto her knees and tossed the rock in the opposite direction. The rock had barely landed before the musket shot rang out. Using her window of time, she darted from her current position and hit the ground running. She could hear a muted curse in the darkness and then the sound of him giving chase. Okay, think, follow the river and hook behind the curve. You can lose him in the darkness and the ravine. It took her a moment to process that she was missing something. _I, I can't let him live. If I do, he'll report it back to his superiors and my cover will be blown. Shit!_

She shook her head and kept running. She could hear him behind her in the dark, stumbling through the brush, snapping twigs, knocking over rocks, and hitting trees. She chuckled at that. Her mirth died when she remembered that this city dweller had killed her contact. _Crack!_ The musket ball slammed into the tree not five feet to her right causing her to stumble. She rolled into the fall and came up in a crouch behind a tree. She unsheathed her knife and held it point down hilt up. Licking her lips, she began counting the seconds in her head until he approached. She got to twenty-eight before she could see a dark shape slowly making its way around the bend. He was well trained, sweeping his musket in a defensive cover pattern, elbows tucked, feet spaced, and shoulders loose. His eyes were in constant motion, looking for the slightest hint of movement.

Astrid silently cursed herself for throwing the rock earlier. The same trick would hardly work twice in one night. Her heart was a racehorse in her chest, its hooves were her heart pounding against her ribcage. She raised her arm and gently slid against the tree. She froze as he twitched and brought the musket back around, his eyes scanning for something, for her. She forced herself to breathe evenly and slowly. She would have to time this right the first time.

He reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. The knife was never intended to kill or even injure him, it was supposed to momentarily force him to disengage from his target. As he reflexively dodged the thrown object, his musket was no longer on center. She quickly moved in to the close distance. Her left hand hooked on to the barrel of the musket, grabbed it, twisted up and over to the left. While doing so she had stepped into him and punched with all her might the weak point on his forearm. Where his elbow and arm connected. She was rewarded with the faint sound of the bone breaking and the equally faint noise of him grunting in pain.

She quickly yanked the rifle from his loosened fingers and stepped back. Or rather she tried to. As she was leaning out, he slammed the back of his hand into the nape of her neck. Her vision blurred and she stumbled forward. Hard.

She grabbed fistfuls of the ground trying to will her vision back. Her head was blossoming and swirling with pain that made it hard to think and breathe. _Get up! You have to get up!_ She stood on somewhat wobbly legs and turned around to see he had also regained his balance.

"Cute. We'll try that again in the dojo sometime after they stitch my arm back together." He growled angrily.

She smiled fiercely at him.

"Let me know the time and location and I'll be there."

He advanced on her slowly now, more cautious now that she had broken his arm. They circled each other, neither eager to re-engage, both sides looking for an opening. It came when she stumbled somewhat on a piece of the ground. He lunged forward grabbing her throat with his remaining good arm and forcefully applied pressure. The impact of hitting the ground had dazed her and knocked all the air from her lungs. Air she was rapidly running out of. She brought her forearms down on his wrist attempting to break the hold, but all she did was cause him to grip tighter. He lifted her neck and head up and then slammed her back down on the ground. His teeth were bared into a feral smile and there was spittle on his lips. He leaned in close to whisper in her ear.

"You know sweetheart, I want you to know, I really did mean it when I said you looked good on your knees. Its shame Major Haddock was there or we would have some fun you and I. Alas, your corpse will be an excellent path back into his good graces."

She looked at him, dying, her brain screaming for oxygen, and she remembered him. _I'm going to be killed by this, this drunk arrogant little shit!_ In a flash of anger, she kneed him just below the ribcage. He snarled and jerked some, but didn't let go. So she did it again and again. On the third try, she felt something give and he gasped in pain. His grip lessened on her throat and she used the opportunity to give him an open-palmed strike to the windpipe. Gaging, he backed off her. She leaned over to her right to the debris she had tripped over, it was the bayonet that had been attached to his rifle. Grabbing it, she scrambled to her knees and gave him a backward kick that returned him to the ground. She quickly climbed on top of him and pinned him in place, as soon as she did though, he began to buck wildly. She savagely punched him in the broken rib, eliciting a howl of pain from him. While he was momentarily distracted, she brought the knife down.

He was injured, but he wasn't down for the count yet. He freed and bought up his good arm to block her forearm and knife a few inches from his face. They stayed locked like that, in power of wills to see who would break first. She felt him attempting to flip her over so she kneed him again in his side. Using the window of opportunity, she leaned back and then dropped all her weight back down on her knife arm. It bucked and plunged the tip into his neck, near his carotid artery. He sputtered in pain as his blood began to trickle out of his wound. While struggling she caught his eye, and what she saw in there gave her pause. She expected to see anger or hate, but instead, all she saw was fear and panic. He started kicking and thrashing underneath her with renewed vigor. _Damnit!_ She yelled and did the action again, this time the knife sank half way in. He began to buck wildly, like a wounded animal desperate to escape. This caused the knife to slip and gash even deeper. The blood was surging out rapidly now, it was coating her arms and hair. It soaked his clothes and stained hers as well. She could see the fear in his eyes turn into morbid despair. He gurgled something unintelligible and she was surprised to find out she was crying. Soon his jerks became more sporadic and lacked the energy they had prior. His breathing was wet and haggard. He coughed blood, blood that speckled on her face. Then, he was still. With a last desperate look at her and a shuddering heave, his head lolled to the side. She watched as the life, as the life faded from his eyes. Leaving her alone in a suddenly quiet forest.

She crab-walked backward and sat there, a few feet from the body of the person she had just killed. She started trembling, no, shaking. She tried to stand but fell back down to her knees. It took her a moment to realize she was sobbing now. The tears were blurring her vision, her throat screamed in agony from the abuse it suffered, and it was hard to breathe. Her clothes, hair, and face were covered in blood. His blood. It was thick and the metallic smell was invading her nose, tinting her vision red. It was still warm and she could feel it trickling through her fingers. Her stomach writhed with a sudden and overwhelming sense of nausea and revulsion.

"Oh, God!" the words tore out of her mouth in between the sobs racking her body.

The urge to vomit coursed through her and she was, again, on her hands and knees. This time violently discharging everything she had eaten that day.


	8. Chapter VIII

**You guys are amazing! Three thousand views in less than 8 weeks, that's incredible! Like I said before, I'll be expanding the scope of the war beyond just the glimpse of it we get from the perspective of Henry and Astrid. I hope you enjoy!** - **Hawkfrost**

Whitehall 1778

"Babes in the nest, yearning to fly free. Hungry chicklings, cheep cheep cheep. Tell me, Henry, have you ever observed hatchlings in a scrape?"

King George sat in the throne room, in his high backed chair resplendent as a monarch should be. He was having a bust of himself done. He thought it important that history should remember his brave and stoic leadership during these turbulent times. His attendant suppressed the urge to shift on his feet, he was still uncomfortable being so close to the sovereign.

"No your majesty."

Without turning around, the king replied. "Ah, well that's your problem you see. You don't observe nature but all of God's secrets and mysteries are revealed in the natural world if one has the wisdom to observe."

"Yes, your majesty." He knew of nothing else to say to the king.

In the shadows, next to the clay that would eventually become a bust of His Majesty King George the Third, the sculptor suppressed a smile at the silliness of the conversation. She never expected such topics being discussed here, in the most powerful of houses.

"In the tern's nest, one must see chicks, tiny beaks open crying for mother bird to feed them. You see it is the same for England and ones own colonies and dominions."

George flicked his eyes to the woman constructing his likeness, she was partly hidden in the shadows, but even in the shifting light, she was a woman of great beauty…and bust. The thought caused him to chuckle somewhat. She noticed him gazing at her and blushed slightly. She resumed her focused attention on her work, but not before a smile began tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"You're from the Americas, miss Wright?"

She was surprised to see that he was addressing her directly. "Aye, your majesty. New Jersey. But my sister lives in your Pennsylvania."

She gave him another shy smile before returning her attention to the task at hand. This part was the difficult section; crafting the expression around the eye was always something that took immense concentration.

"Does she now?"

She paused for a moment from her work, "Aye. And chirping more happily I expect now that your army has driven the accursed rebels out of her home in Philadelphia."

The smile she gave him now was anything but shy. She also allowed her gaze to linger and to become something more than innocent, something, amorous. The king gave her his full attention now, his eyes sweeping over her face and more eye-catching parts of her.

"Quite." The word wasn't quite a moan, but it wasn't far from it either.

"Pennsylvania is, uh, northern yes? North of tobacco, that is."

She was about to respond when the large oak doors swung open and in walked three rather serious looking men. The kings faced showed how clearly he bothered the intrusion, though that was hardly necessary considering what happened next.

"Your Majesty, a word?"

"Not now Bill!" The sudden increase in his volume almost caused her to start. "Can't you see I'm preoccupied?"

The two men tilted their heads in deference but didn't leave.

"Apologies my lord, but what we have to discuss is most pressing." He tapped the book he was holding.

"Everyone, out," The second man spoke. "Now."

After briefly glancing at the King, they all field out of the room. They left the room and entered into a hallway decorated with regal portraits of former English Kings, silver coated candles, and glass chandeliers. It was an altogether impressive and no doubt expensive display of power and wealth.

"Shouldn't be long." She glanced at the gentleman to her left, she had forgotten his name since they hadn't spoken prior to his moment. "He grows tired of the Exchequer within the hour."

She gave him a humored smile. "Don't mind me. My mother named me patience so I would always have a little." They shared a little chuckle over her sarcasm.

"We should all have been blessed so, eh?" The voice punctured their conversation as a knife would flesh.

"Robert Rogers, Lieutenant Colonel Commandant of His Majesty's Queen's Rangers in America, and your loyal servant." He gave a bow to her.

She smiled politely back at him, not knowing what else to do. Her companion, on the other hand, showed no such indecision.

"Should we curtsy? Or have you a petition for the king?"

"An appointment yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that, too." Rogers moved closer to the attendant. "I grow tired of waiting."

He gave Mr. Rogers a pitying smirk.

"Oh yes, and I recall on one of those days I made it quite clear that you were on the list." He put some emphasis on the word list. "And you shall be seen when called."

Robert was about to respond when His Majesty's angered voice was heard through the oak door.

"Out! Get out! I'll finish sitting for my portrait and hear no more of this!"

The door swung open and one of the three men she had seen enter earlier came barreling out, fast walking quickly enough to be called a brisk jog. They moved out of his way so as to avoid a collision.

"And get that bloody charlatan back here at once."

The three of them stared at each other a moment before the attendant began walking back into the room, as he did so, he motioned for her to accompany him. Patience smiled at Robert and then followed Edward back into the room. They found the king sitting in a chair, a wicked look on his face, and muttering something under his breath.

"Miserable West Indies. I knew—I knew we should never have—How dare they tell me we owe? I am the one who collects." He punctuated his words by thumping his chest. "I collect!"

Patience kept her mouth shut and stared at the floor, being in the presence of the king was bad enough, being in the presence of an angry king was much worse. The king sat in his chair for a moment, seemingly calming down. Then he abruptly stood, slammed the report on his knee, and let out a frustrated scream.

"They treat me as though I'm some sort of child." His voice was quivering with poorly controlled rage. "I don't care what it costs in Maratha. I don't care what it costs in the Caribbean."

He began tearing out pages from the book as he named the country.

"Responsibility, he says. Yes, responsibility. No, no, no."

The first man she had seen when they had been ordered to leave was on his hands and knees quickly collecting the pages the king had torn out in his fit of anger. "Majesty, please. We must keep—"

The king shoved his chair off the pedestal and let it collapse onto the floor.

"Clean that up." He snapped angrily.

Edward quickly obeyed.

"Your Majesty—" the king whirled around.

"What are you doing? Why are you always following me around? Everywhere I go. What you-what are we-we're down on all fours, are we now?" The king was stuttering in his anger. "Like a little dog, are we? What, is it dog time? Dog time? Woof, woof, woof! Woof, woof, woof! Woof, woof, woof!"

He was on his knees shouting into his ministers face. The king was shouting and acting like a dog, the minister seemed as if he were trying not to cry, and Edward was frantically trying to clean up the mess. During all this commotion, no one was paying any attention to her. So no one saw that she slid one of the torn out pages to her with her foot and under her dress.

"Yes? You're a ridiculous little man." The king stood up with disgust.

00000

Her workshop was of spacious design. It had three large windows that allowed sunlight and fresh air to enter easily. The rippling shadows and holy light were invaluable to her work as an artist. However, these large open orifices let out sound as easily as they let it in. Laughter, hers and his, could be heard. Moaning, hers and his could be easily heard. They were currently engaged in the most, artistic of physical activities. Her fingers raked through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it as each wave crashed through her. She could feel his fingers drawing incendiary lines of fire across her stomach, her waist, and her legs. The candlelight, the smell of paint, the rough fabric of the sheet they were lying on, it all contributed to the decadence of the moment.

"Oi! Oh, you've kicked my eye."

She laughed, and tried to sit up, but found it hard with where his hands were placed. She rolled herself into a more amenable position.

"Don't need your eye" she brought his face to hers and kissed him deeply. "Just your t-"

The door of her studio was abruptly kicked in, and several men poured through the open space.

"No!" The scream came out on its own accord.

The men began destroying everything in sight. Kicking over tables, smashing statues, bust, ripping up portraits, and paintings. One of the men came over and savagely bashed her, acquaintance, with a baton. Blood splattered and she heard the sickening sound of his nose breaking.

"Stop! Stop it!" She grabbed ahold of him and gently pressed her hands to his bloodied face.

"Shut up!" One of the men snarled as he picked up another statue and hurled into at her feet.

The image shattered and scattered its ceramic and stone pieces all over the room. They continued breaking things, throwing chairs across the room, flipping more tables over, and causing general carnage. She noticed that their clothes were nondescript, they wore no colors, no discernible unit insignia. They had scarves covering the lower half of their faces. They wore thick gloves and had pistols on their waist, in addition to a saber.

"Stop! Stop!"

They paid her screams about as much attention as you would stray thought. They didn't even slow in their task. Patience stood up, as did her friend, albeit slower and cradling his face. She held the sheet closer to her, feeling a tendril of fear sneak into her as she pondered her current state of dress. Seeing him beginning to stand, they again hit him with the baton, returning him to the floor with a pained grunt. She screamed again, but to no avail. The soldiers paid her no mind and continued pillaging her place.

"Enough."

The voice that spoke was calm and controlled. It showed no signs of being affected by the violence happening. His order was obeyed at once, and the sudden silence caused more terror in her than the noise had. He entered the room slowly, giving it a cursory examination. He gave apprising looks to the remaining pieces of art. He was tall and of medium built. He wasn't wearing a mask and held himself with the regality of an officer.

"It's a bust of the king we're after."

He was currently bending over to give one of her drawings a closer look.

"Quite an artist aren't you, Miss Wright?"

She was so nervous she couldn't even formulate a response. It was all too much, her studio trashed, her lover bloodied, standing naked in a room filled with hostile men, and the sinking realization that she had been caught.

"No matter" He straightened and walked over to her. "Where has it gone? Where have you sent it?"

No-"

He cut her off. "To Versailles? To Benjamin Franklin in Paris? How would you sail it past the embargo line?"

She was trembling now. "Your Grace, please. I—I don't—I don't—"

He rolled his eyes and motioned to one of the men behind him. The soldier dragged her lover up onto his knees, drew the pistol he carried at his waist, and placed it against his temples. The lead man in charge turned his attention back to Patience.

"Shall we open his head and look there for what you stole?"

The sarcastic but venomous lilt to his voice made her shiver.

"No, please. The boy is innocent." She looked at him helplessly, tears starting to sting her eyes.

"You would prefer a different target" the pistol moved from her lovers head and towards her direction. "A military target, then give us the location of the rebel message." The pistol returned to the poor boy's head.

"If not France, then where?" He stepped close to her, forcing her back up against the wall.

She looked into his face, his eyes, and saw nothing. No rage, no hatred, just a cold dispassionate appraisal of who and what she was. She couldn't, giving her lover one last look, she gave a small shake of her head.

He let out a snort and shook his head in disgust. "America."

He spat the word out as if it made him ill just to say it. As she looked at him then, her fear began to fade, morphing into anger and resentment. She gave him a smirk.

"No, not America" she leaned into him, "It is bound for the United States."

She saw his mouth twitch and she knew she had scored a point. He nodded to her, took one step back, and then turned around to his soldier. The sound of the gunshot made her jump from surprise; she let out a gasp as his blood splattered onto her face and his corpse slumped onto the floor. She stared at his body, the body of the boy she had come to enjoy. He had a such a sweet smile, but now all she could see was the mangled mass of flesh and bones that was his head.

The lead man gazed at the body for a moment before turning his attention back to her.

"What's the name of the ship?"

She shook her head. "That won't help you now."

He moved forward and shoved her into the wall, pinning her there. "Then let us continue this discourse, in my workshop."

Now, she did see emotion in his eyes, the emotion she saw there caused fear and dread to bubble inside her.

"Sir. Shipping receipt from the Margaretta" he walked to stand behind and to the left of his superior. "Left Shell Haven three days ago. It's bound for Brooklyn."

She whimpered. All color and emotion drained from her. This was it, this is how she would die. Not helping the cause, but pathetically. They knew what she had hidden it in, and they knew what ship it was on, and they knew where it was headed. Her knees gave out and she slumped onto the floor. The officer smiled at her and nodded to another one of his soldiers. The soldier walked forward to stand in front of her.

"Ple-"

His finger depressed on the trigger, and the explosion came, deafening in its thunderous exultation, the musket ball ripping the air, leaving a ragged hole in reality. A red, fist-sized opening appeared in the side of her head, followed by the thump of her corpse hitting the floor.

 **And the plot thickens. What happens next, who knows? Rebel cells operating in London is something history has all but confirmed. So I thought it would be nice to incorporate that into my story, also, we get a snippet of King George's antics. If you'd like, you can follow me on Reddit, look for my username: FN-4051.**


	9. Chapter IX

**You guys continue to amaze, all I can say is thank you. I'm curious to see how you guys think this story will end.**

 **-Hawkfrost**

Astrid sat on the edge of her bed trying to stifle her sobs and gain control of her turbulent emotions; it was like being a ship corkscrewing through waves of the ocean. She placed her trembling hands on the hardwood of her bed-frame hoping to draw comfort from the strength of its stability. It helped, a little. She closed her eyes and began focusing on her breathing. It was hard to do since sitting seemed to require more energy than her exhausted body had to offer. _Breathe, just breathe._ She exhaled slowly through her mouth before inhaling deeply through her nose. _Sounds of musket shots_ Her breathing hitched. _His blood spattering on her face_ She started gripping the wood hard enough to hurt. _Please, don't kill me!_ She stood suddenly and flew into the bathroom, just managing to reach the sink before vomiting yet again. It was an exercise in futility, what little she had eaten that day was already staining the ground where his body lie, lied, it wasn't there anymore now. She slumped onto the floor and cradled her head in her hands, it sounded like there was a war going on in her head, and even the most basic of thoughts seemed to be beyond her comprehension.

"I had no choice." The whisper pried itself out her mouth of its own accord.

That did nothing to ease her conscience. No, her conscience still remembered the look in his eyes, that moment in time when he realized he was going to die and that nothing could change that. She could still feel the warmth of his blood as it dripped down her neck and coated her hands, it was unbelievably sticky, like red molasses, refusing to go away no matter how many times she had scrubbed.

"I didn't," she could feel the tears stinging her eyes and causing her vision to blur "he, he didn't give me a choice."

She placed her hand over her mouth to keep the groan from coming out as she rocked back and forth trying to remember how to breathe. After the deed had been done she wanted to run, just run forever and never stop. She hadn't wanted to look down at the lifeless corpse that used to be a human being. She hadn't wanted to be the one responsible for turning him into said corpse. She also really hadn't wanted to do what she did next. She couldn't just leave his body in the middle of the woods, someone would go looking for him and would no doubt have questions about the circumstances of his death. So she dragged him to the river bank and, using strips of his shirt, tied a rock to each ankle. She then waded out into the icy black that was the water and proceeded with her plan. Or she attempted to, she hadn't fully appreciated how cold the water would be. Especially since it wasn't yet winter. She wasted several moments trying to stop her teeth from chattering and was immensely grateful she suffered through lifting and dragging the rocks on land. It would have been impossible for her to do it now, with her fingers stiff and clumsy. She kept going, half swimming half lunging forward with the body in tow. She had to reach a spot deep enough that passers-by wouldn't notice and he would have enough room to sink. It seemed like she swam forever, the sounds of the waves lapping, her breath seen through the moonlight, the cold that was constant as it was burning.

Eventually, she had reached the desired depth. She let go and watched his body sink. Just before the deep dark claimed his soul, his lifeless eyes stared at her, accusing her.

"I'm sorry." She had whispered it to waves. It was almost mantra for her now, sitting there on the hard, uncomfortable wood of her floor. She sniffed a few times and stared numbly at nothing. She had no perception of how long she sat there, her hair still wet and dripping onto the floor. She might never have moved if not for what happened next.

Thump, thump.

The vibrating sound of knuckles pounding against the wooden door of her apartment penetrates through the walls. At first, she doesn't register it, her brain still addled with grief and coming off the shock of, well shock.

Thump, thump.

There it is again. This time she does react, her head swings around and she leans against the door frame. Her heart accelerates as beads of sweat begin to form on her head, despite still feeling half frozen to death.

Thump, thump.

She licked her lips, she knew now this wasn't a trick her brain was playing on her, someone was at her door, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. All she could do was stare at the wooden door. Time froze and she was nine years old again. She had been so excited to show her father her new skill. She remembered wanting so desperately for him to be proud of her again. She had raced up the steps of their little wooden cottage and proudly presented her father with the bow she had spent an entire summer making. She thought he would be proud of her, or at least happy.

But that wasn't to be, her parents had scarcely noticed her there, so busy were they burning piles of documents and bound books they failed to noticed the hoof beats until they were just outside. She remembered the sound of knocking then as well, she could still see the look on her fathers face as he peeked out the window to see two soldiers flanking an officer on both sides. Her father had taken her in his arms and taken her to the bedroom, he told her to climb underneath the bed and made her swear not to come out no matter what. She tried to protest, to tell him she didn't want him to leave her alone, that she was scared. But he just kissed her forehand and ran back outside, closing the door behind him.

She could hear his voice tremble slightly as he addressed them. She could hear the sound of wood breaking and people shouting. There were grunts of pain and the sound of rapidly moving feet. She listened intently as they tore her home apart. It was if they were shoving everything aside, flipping over tables, chairs, desks, anything that wasn't firmly placed into the ground. Papa had shouted for them to stop, but when he tried to speak again he was abruptly cut off. There was more screaming and papa and a soldier crashed into the bedroom, breaking the door down. They wrestled on the ground for a moment before another soldier came into the room and cracked his head with the blunt end of his pistol.

It had taken everything she had not to scream, so instead, she had bitten down on her tongue, bitten down so hard it bled in her mouth. The soldier pressed the gun to her fathers head and cocked the hammer. Papa looked at her underneath the bed, looked at his daughter, at her face screwed up in agony, silent tears coursing down her cheeks, and he smiled. It was a wonderful smile. Just before he pulled the trigger the soldier was pulled back by mama, she had wrapped a table cloth around his throat and was using it to strangle him. The soldier stumbled back, momentarily off balance. In the reprieve, papa used the opportunity to shove the other soldier's head into the wall. Astrid heard a wet snapping sound and he groaned in pain.

"Close your eyes. Close your eyes my Valkyrie." He had whispered the words fiercely.

She shut her eyes moments before the gunshot. The shot cracked into the air as loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. She felt the ground vibrate as papa thudded onto the floor.

Her mother had screamed at the sight of her husband's corpse and thrown the nearest thing in her hand at them. The other soldier hit her and shoved her against the wall. She viciously kicked his leg causing him to trip. Once he was on the floor she slammed the fireplace poker into his face. He screamed so she did it again, and again. She kept going until she too was felled by a shot. This time, Astrid's eyes were open, and she saw her mothers head explode. The scene before her was so horrific that she couldn't even scream, she couldn't even breathe. All she could do was stare blankly.

Thump, thump.

The knocking tore her from her memories. She stood on shaky legs and wiped away the tears that were stinging her eyes. Slowly she approached the door, too broken to care what lay on the other side of it. It wasn't so much that she was walking forward as the door was inching closer to her. When she had finally glided to her stopping point she reached out to grab the handle. She froze there a moment, trying to compose herself and feeling that she was failing. Taking a deep breath, she stepped back and opened the door.

00000

He couldn't sleep. He had been lying there for hours now, listening to the noise of the street below him. He could hear the sound of hooves echoing off the cobblestone, the sounds of drunken party goers tumbling back to their homes in various states of inebriation. He heard it all, processed it even, but was completely disconnected from it. All he could think about was her. It had been (blank) weeks since they had spoken. He had told himself to move on, she was a beautiful woman, but he had been with plenty of beautiful women, so what? Be he couldn't. At night, she came to him, in his dreams, she was his. He sat up and rubbed his face, this was ridiculous, he was a highly trained intelligent officer pining after some, some barmaid. It was pathetic. At least, that's what he told himself. _Some officer you turned out to be, pining like this. What would your father say?_ He growled and flopped back down on his pillow. It wasn't her that was keeping him up, it was his damned back injury. Yes, that was it, it didn't signify deeper emotional turmoil, it was simply his back pain.

The damned thing was acting up again and he was certainly not going to take the medicine the doctors had prescribed him. When he had been laid out in hospital in sheer agony they had prescribed him a bit more than was necessary. Nothing against the docs, they had been fine docs, just a bit heavy handed. The withdrawal period had been absolute hell. The opium was a wonderful method of neutralizing pain, along with the rest of his emotions. He remembered the drug-induced nightmares that had come. The feelings of weightlessness and the rage that had followed at seeing his limbs disobey commands from his brain. How he had struggled even to say the most basic of words for his tongue was heavy and useless as lead. The overall experience was so dreadful it left him with a strong aversion to all opioids and anything similar. With a sigh, he tossed off the covers and lumbered into the washroom. After lighting a candle and relieving himself, he looked at his reflection in the flickering light. He saw the shadows dancing across his face, seeming to split him in two, and tried to ignore the poignant message hidden there. Three years, he sighed, three bloody years and they were no closer to victory than they were at the onset. Countless tens of thousands of pounds spent, thousands of soldiers either wounded or killed and they had nothing real to show for it. All they had were a list of close calls and could've beens. So here he was, losing sleep and keeping a near addiction opioid incident at bay, while…what? He was tired of it all he couldn't even coherently lay out precisely who or what he was angry with. He gripped the sink tightly and took a deep breath.

Rolling his neck, he exited the washroom to gaze out his window at his domain below. Sometimes the burden of it all came to him at once. There were thousands of people, all living ordinary lives with ordinary concerns. Never fully appreciating how close to death and chaos they were living. If the British army failed to exterminate this rebel infestation it would mean the end of everything righteous. He remembered with horrible acuity what that had looked like during the seven years war. Those bloody savages in the Wabanaki and Ojibwa tribes had unleashed bloody vengeance on the civilized world. Scalping, kidnapping, and even raping weren't unheard of when they were on the prowl. When he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander, he could still hear the bone-chilling sound of their war cries. The demonism of it all only settling in when he was alone. When he was left alone to quietly chant the names of every one of his brothers that had fallen to the hated Indians.

He had been a boy during the campaign that had netted him the scar that bisected his back. He could remember the excitement that he had had. Here he was eighteen, and being one of the King's soldiers. He was going off to the Americas to wreak holy vengeance on the French dogs and their savage butchers. The memories whipping through his mind caused his wound to throb from phantom pain. It felt like his body was trying to fold his back in half. He gasped and fell onto his bed gnashing his teeth to keep from crying out. After a few pain wracked moments the episode subsided, leaving him breathless and alone, slumped there on the floor. There, in the darkness and completely alone, no one could see the tears running from his eyes as the sounds of war and the smell of death came back to him.

 **Well, who do you think is knocking on Astrid's door at this hour? And does stone cold Henry's heart beat after all?**


	10. Chapter X

**Thank you guys for your continued support. We've now cleared over 4,200 views! That's incredible! There's a time jump from this chapter and the preceding one, now we'll be focusing on Major Haddock's attempts to destroy the rebellion and how Astrid's emotions will begin affecting her loyalties…**

 **-Hawkfrost**

 **Edit: My bad, totally forgot to identify who was speaking in the second part of this chapter**

 **Boston 1770 (eight years ago)**

 **Prologue**

The Boston Massacre, as it was now called, was a deadly riot that occurred on the brisk early morning of March 5, some eight years ago, on King Street in Boston. It began as and should've stayed as a street brawl between American colonists and a lone British soldier. Instead, it quickly escalated into a chaotic, bloody slaughter. The conflict served to energize anti-English sentiment and paved the way for the war they were currently engaged in.

Tensions had already been running high in Boston in early 1770. The king had sent more than 2,000 soldiers "establish law and order" in a city occupied with more than 16,000 colonists. It was nothing more than a poorly concealed ruse, the soldier's true reasons for being there was to enforce Britain's tax laws. American colonists, with just cause, rebelled against the taxes they found repressive, rallying around the cry, "no taxation without representation." The words echoed off buildings and the cobbled pavement. It thrummed in harmony with thousands of beating hearts.

Skirmishes between colonists and soldiers – and between patriot colonists and colonists loyal to Britain (loyalists, as they were called by the Patriots) – were increasingly common. To protest taxes, patriots often vandalized stores selling British goods and intimidated store merchants and their customers. In turn, loyalist would ride up and tar and feather some poor farmer or beat down some poor sod crossing the street. This would enrage the patriots who would retaliate and so on and so on. This low-level violence should've served as a warning, but no one listened. Or rather, they were so preoccupied with their troubles they failed to notice the danger looming on the horizon. That danger made itself manifest on the morning of the 22nd of February.

On that day, a mob of Patriots attacked a known loyalist's store. Customs officer Ebenezer Richardson lived near the store and tried to break up the rock-pelting crowd by firing his gun through the window of his home. Good intentions unfortunate don't negate impact. His gunfire struck and killed an 11-year-old boy named Christopher Seider. Instead of causing the crowd to disperse he only succeeded in further enraging the Patriots. This set of a cycle of events that led to a fight breaking out between local workers and British soldiers. It ended without serious bloodshed but helped set the stage for the bloody incident that was yet to come.

So, there it was, the stage was set, and the actors were prepared. On the frigid, snowy evening of March 5, 1770, Private Hugh White was the only soldier guarding the King's money stored inside the Custom House on King Street. It wasn't long before angry colonists joined him and insulted him and threatened violence. They were angry and were looking for something, someone to vent it on. Who better than a soldier of the country they hated so much?

The crowd surged in on him, a thronging angry mass. Our poor private was overwhelmed and struck a colonist with his bayonet. In retaliation, the colonists pelted him with snowballs, ice, and stones, anything they could get their hands on. Bells started ringing throughout the town – usually a warning of fire – sending a mass of male colonists into the streets, making matters worse. As the assault on White continued, he eventually fell and called for reinforcements.

In response to White's plea and fearing mass riots and the loss of the King's money, Captain Thomas Preston arrived on the scene with several soldiers and took up a defensive position in front of the Custom House. Worried that bloodshed was inevitable, some colonists reportedly pleaded with the soldiers to hold their fire as others dared them to shoot. But it was too late, the play's ending was already set in stone, all that was left was for the audience to experience it. Preston later reported a colonist told him the protestors planned to "carry off White from his post and probably murder him." Whether that's true or not is of no concern all that matters is the Captain response to the warning.

The violence escalated, and the colonists struck the soldiers with clubs and sticks. Someone threw a glass lantern that caused a small fireball to flame up, further causing more chaos. The crowd pressed in more aggressively, they continued shouting, pushing, and hitting the soldiers. The soldiers themselves were shouting, to hold formation, for the crowd to disperse. In all this ruckus in all this fear and adrenaline, the unimaginable happened. A shot rang out. For a brief moment in time everything seemed to come to a standstill, for one moment, the crowd stopped. At that moment, Captain Preston's face went pale with the understanding of what would come next.

Then everything snapped back, once that first shot rang out, the soldiers followed suit, opening fire as well. In the shooting five colonists were killed and six were wounded. What happened next set the country on fire, Preston and his soldiers were arrested, and the propaganda machine had fun turning this engagement into a massacre. They perpetuated the notion that the British were slaughtering colonist at will. This whipped the entirety of the colony into a mad fever of rage and despair that demanded release. The papers printed illustrations of the shooting, it perpetuated the colonist as gentleman and the soldiers as vicious murders.

The trial that commenced served only to worsen the situation. Mr. John Adams was the attorney assigned to defend the men, and he did so saying he believed they deserved a fair trial. Maybe those men did, but the outcome did no good. When the colonies learned that the soldiers that had brutally murdered their countrymen were to walk free, all their anger and frustration returned. And what did Preston have to say about the dreadful affair? "None of them was a hero. The victims were troublemakers who got more than they deserved. The soldiers were professionals…who shouldn't have panicked. The whole thing shouldn't have happened."

Yes, Mr. Preston, the whole thing shouldn't have happened, but it had. And now here they were, eight years later, fighting this bloody war for independence. And it was not going well.

00000

 **Present Day**

 **Early Winter**

 **1778**

Most of them here were young, boys really, some of them hadn't even been with a woman yet. But here they were, hundreds of miles from home sleeping in tents, marching hundreds of miles per week, living under the constant threat of attack and death. They did this all for freedom, freedom for themselves, freedom for their families, and freedom for their country. They had all suffered under the oppressive yoke of England in one way or the other, but unlike the cowards who were content to lick clean the boots of red coats, the so-called loyalist, these men had decided to fight back. Since that fateful day of April 18th, over three years ago, they had been fighting. They had done the unimaginable, they had taken on the most powerful military on the face of the planet, and won, that battle at least.

He hadn't been in the service for that battle, but he could remember with acuity how those who had fought retold the story. The tension at that time was palpable. It was felt by shop owners as they watched from their windows at the increased military presence. Blacksmiths, as they hammered away at their metals, the tension rising in harmony with each clang. Slowly, without it even really being noticed, the British began tightening their grip on the continent. Harbors were restricted, curfews were put into place, and the right to assemble was denied. The rules began to mount and so did the anger and hatred.

So, it began to take shape, on the night of April 18th, hundreds of British soldiers had marched onto Lexington in hopes of searching and destroying rebel arms. The battle that ensued was short and chaotic. Once the smoke cleared and the last shot rang out, the battlefield was littered with the corpses of nine and wounded. The redcoats then proceeded to torch everything in their path in the futile hopes to eliminate weapon caches. On the skirts of the town, what remained of the rebel force watched in mute horror as their homes and memories went up in cinders, the hungry flames lapping at everything in its ravenous path, while hoofbeats and the commands of officers echoed across the night.

So, here they were, again, freezing their asses off in this godforsaken stretch of land that was valley forge. None of them thought the war would be easily one, but they had assumed they would have the support of the people on their side. And to some extent, they did, but not nearly as much as they had hoped. General Clinton had driven them out of Philadelphia easily enough. And the defeats had kept coming, the entirety of the army was being pushed back on its heels. This army, the one under Washington's command, barely survived. The Brits had destroyed several of their food and munitions stocks in sweeping counter-offensive operations. What they couldn't salvage for themselves, they burned so as not to leave it for the British Army to capture. The fires didn't mix all that well with the lush dense forest and all the dead branches. It was said that some fires still burned even now. Mutiny wasn't unheard of and morale was at its lowest. Even he could hardly blame them, disease was common, most of them were poorly dressed for the biting cold, improper care of the dead left mass graves poorly dug and marked. Most of them were starving as well. Fighting around Philadelphia affected the supply routes, often the food perished before it arrived. And what little did make it through British blockades was rotting or just not enough to feed the living, let alone the wounded and sick.

They were all exhausted and pushed to the ragged edge of their endurance. The General was keeping them going through sheer force of will, but even he was beginning to look affected. There was a heaviness to his gait, tiredness behind the eyes, he hid it well. But it was there if you looked close enough. But it wasn't his job to mother hen the general, that had been made clear to him some months prior. Besides he had other things to worry about. As a major in Military Intelligence assigend to General Washington, he had much to keep him occupied. Major Benjamin Tallmadge, he liked the way it sounded when he introduced homself. _Enough_ _of_ _that_ , _back to work major._ He was standing in front of a note that was delivered to him via one of his agents. After the contact he had sent personally had failed to return, he had debated what to do next. Ultimately it was decided for him to go personally, it was a major risk, but one he felt was needed. The rumors they were hearing, if true, would signify the end of the war. And not with an American victory. Despite the grimness of it all, he couldn't help smiling at the memory. What could he say, he was a sucker for blue eyes, and her's was the most irresistible, a dangerous and alluring shade of ice blue.

He had admired her from afar for years but did nothing. They were friends, and technically she was subordinate. But she was more than that, if he was being honest with himself, he loved her. He had for ages. So, when he had shown up that night and looked at her, her neck bruised, her hair wet hanging onto her shoulders, and her blue eyes brimmed with tears. He was helpless. They crossed the boundary and when it was all over, he was the happiest man alive, until the next morning. She was…distant, her mannerism and behavior were almost mechanistic. She had delivered a note she had found on the person of the soldier she had killed. It was nothing more than a few smudged words, but it linked perfectly with the suspicions they already had.

Major Haddock was attempting to undermine the war effort by pumping counterfeit money into circulation. The thought terrified him if the news becomes widespread the economy would fall apart. If the army couldn't purchase weapons and supplies, then they couldn't engage the British. If they couldn't pay the salaries of their soldiers, there wouldn't even be an army to buy supplies for. He looked at the map again and stared, the silent rage whipping through him. The counterfeiting was being done in New York, but there was nothing they could do. The British were firmly entrenched, like white on rice. All he could do was hope that she would do her part, the fate of the revolution now lies in her hands. She wouldn't let him down though, Astrid never had.


	11. Chapter XI

**Whaaat? A second chapter this soon? I had this one finished so I figured I might drop it for you guys. Whenever you see "present day" I'm referring to the "now" section of the arc. I have few flashbacks/background details I'll be filling in as well. Whenever we go back in time, I'll indicate that as well. This chapter takes place in present day. Present day being a couple months after chapter nine (where Astrid kills the soldier). Let's call this chapter a hard T/soft M. Also, I have a poll up on my account, if you have the time I would like to hear your feedback.**

 **-Hawkfrost**

 **Present day**

 **Early Winter**

 **1778**

Henry rolled his neck to work out the kinks. With a popping noise, they loosened. He let out a sigh and turned back to his workstation. He had been sitting here for hours now, he needed to get the plans exactly right, for if his gamble worked, the war would be over within the year and he could go home. It was still unbelievable to him the negligence of the high command. In their arrogance, they had ignored a mountain's worth of evidence of the imminent threat that was colonial independence. Because of this, almost overnight, the thirteen separate colonies had formed a central government to unify the people, a military to defend said people and to top it off, a central economy to pay for it all. It was a daunting task that everyone in Whitehall had assumed would take months at the very least. But these cursed rebels had done it almost instantly.

This task, already no small matter, was carried out while undergoing an invasion by the British army, which made mincemeat out of whatever forces the Americans could throw at it. The first few battles were more of a slaughter than anything else. Pigeon's hill, Mauer's ridge, and others. Decisive victories that installed in The British army a false sense of security. That sense of security did not last long. It took only a few months for the reality of it all to set in. It was quickly made apparent that the army would be fighting an uphill battle. Lack of men and supplies, a chain of command that stretched almost three thousand miles, and a population in the colonies that could range from hostile to very supportive to outright ambivalent. The problems continued to mount without reprieve and without mercy.

This fact angered Henry more than it should've, whenever the British army met the Americans on the field of battle they almost always won. The Americans simply could not stand up to the most powerful army on the planet and they knew that. So despite several victories, none of them were enough would bring an end to the war. The Americans had learned their lesson and stopped fighting them openly, now they launched cowardly attacks on their supply lines, striking patrols and then slithering back into the woods like the Native Americans that helped them. After months of campaigning, it was made clear that something besides the force of arms would be needed to bring the colonies to their senses, he had finally been granted authority to launch Operation Dolos.

Whitehall was unhappy with how things had been going, the king made it clear he wanted a victory, by any means. Henry had decided to take a more strategic view of the war. Ultimately the British needed to destroy the rebel army. They had to do that if they had any hope of bringing the colonies back into the fold. His plan, undermine and cripple the fledgling American economy. The logic was simple; if the economy was in shambles the Americans would not be able to purchase the men and material needed to continue the war. At the same, by undermining the economy they would also be undermining the American Congress, which was acting as the central government. Henry reasoned that if people lost faith in the Congress, they would realize that war could not be won, and they would all return to the fold. After the fighting around Philadelphia reached a new high in bloodiness and destruction, more and more of the high command adopted his point of view.

Whitehall authorized this new strategic design. The navy began implanting it by limiting American trade with foreign nations using the all-powerful British Navy to interdict as much overseas commerce as possible as well as searching vessels from "neutral" countries for war materials in route to America. Henry had been opposed to his particular idea but was helpless to stop it. He feared that this would provoke Englands prideful neighbors and he was right. Whispers of France and Spain sending help to the rebels was adding grey to his hair. After bumbling around like newly castrated cows and making a spectacular mess of things, the military had called off all other operations. Now he had finally been allowed to take sole directorship. All the others had failed, but he would not. His plan's elegance was in its simplicity. If there was no economy, there was no war. He began writing, taking notes, jotting down ideas, and marking ideal staging points.

He took care not to make too much noise, he didn't want to disturb his…over night guest. The thought of her elicited a smile from him. _God, I'm tired._ He reclined in his chair to stretch his back. After drumming his fingers on the wood for a few seconds he came to his decision. Shoving his chair back, gently, he proceeded up the stairs to his bedroom, where she lay. He could see her form through the crepuscular lighting. Walking over, he sat down on the edge of the bed and brushed a strand of her golden locks back behind her ear. He was amazed at how much he liked her hair. It was as if his fingers were swimming through a sea of soft gold. It was deep and mesmerizing and it seemed to shimmer in the light. His most closely guarded secret was that he found it most relaxing to run his fingers through it. It soothed him, gave him a sort of delicate focus. She smiled lazily in response to his touch and rubbed her cheek against his fingers.

"What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?"

Her voice was slurred by sleep and she hadn't opened her eyes yet. He leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"Work. It never quite stops for me."

She snorted and opened one eye, it twinkled with mirth.

"I seem to remember a time not so long ago when your work 'stopped' for an hour or two."

He laughed and pinched her ear.

"Cheeky bugger aren't you?"

She pouted at him, "No, but maybe after I've known you a little bit."

He raised an eyebrow lecherously at her and she laughed again. She propped herself up on one elbow and kissed his chest, a few inches shy of his heart. He slid into bed beside her and pulled her closer to him, bringing her head to rest on his chest. He tenderly stroked his fingers through her hair and earned himself a soft purr in acknowledgment.

"Can I at least ask what it is?"

Her fingers traced his ribs, leaving a trail of fire wherever they went. She took her time, knowing exactly the reaction she would get from him. His breathing hitched and he swallowed hard. He could feel her smile in the darkness as she listened to his reaction.

"We've been through that Astrid." He kept the sentence short, he didn't trust his voice not to crack if he said more.

"I know, but, _kiss,_ I, _kiss,_ do, k _iss,_ love, _kiss,_ to, _kiss,_ tease you."

She ended the last one on his jaw and then rolled onto her back.

"I do wonder what my friends would say if they knew I was sleeping with a Redcoat?"

Her question wasn't real and he could see the gleam of her teeth in the dark. He chuckled himself, her lying on her back gave him rather a nice view. She followed his gaze and then wiggled her eyebrows at him, causing more laughter.

"I don't think they'd blame you, after all, what lassie could resist such raw, Viking masculinity?"

He affected a guttural Scottish accent to make his delivery even more humorous, and to belie the sheer oddity of his words. Astrid was having trouble breathing now.

"oh-" she paused for air. "Is that what this package is? I assumed I had gotten the scrawny but brainy version."

Henry affected a pained expression. "You wound me, madam, you wound me."

"Aww, did the big bad Brit get his feelings hurt?"

She leaned forward to kiss him again when a soft knock reverberated through the door. Letting out a sigh, Henry kissed her forehead and walked towards the door, along the way he pulling on a shirt.

Astrid flopped back down onto the bed twirling a strand of her hair through her fingers. She could hear the sounds of whispers, but not actual words. She rolled onto her stomach and listened intently for a few seconds. Suddenly the door shut and the footsteps that receded did so with urgency. She simply dropped her head on the pillow. It was to be expected, when it came to his job, Henry was dead serious. She slid out of bed and threw on a robe. The silk fabric was so soft on her skin that she paused briefly to ponder just how much money this man has. It still bothered her somewhat the blatant displays of wealth, and how they never seemed to realize how fortunate they were. Now she was walking barefoot on exquisite hardwood floors, naked except for the robe that no doubt cost a months salary.

She traced her fingers over the velvet covering the walls, gazing at the portraits that hung on them with a bored interest. She had little use for art, she had little use for all things not necessary. So many of the women of her time busied themselves with nonsense. They did their hair, they prettied themselves with so much makeup they might as well be circus clowns. They curtsied, they were properly mannered, and they were utterly vapid. She supposed it couldn't be helped, for many women there was no other recourse. All they had was the hope of being married off into money or at least a man with decent prospects. That was the cost of living in a society that didn't hold women in that high of esteem. And her? She paused in front of a painting, it was of some English lord or the other, standing beside him was a woman with blonde hair…and blue eyes. Astrid stared at this painting intently. Could she do it? _Do I want to do it?_ Now there's a thousand-pound question. She frowned and look down at her hands. She knew what she was, she knew all that had been done to her, she had carried the pain of it bottled inside her for years. An orphan, cast aside by the country of the man she was now intertwined with. There was an irony if she ever saw one.

Her parents would be been horrified if they knew that their little girl would grow up to sleep with a Brit. They would've viewed it as an unspeakable crime. _The English are our enemy Astrid, never forget that._ She could hear her fathers voice in her head, usually strong and caring, this time harsh and forceful, his Ulster accent especially thick. All she had wanted to do was play with the boy, he had been nice to her, shared his books with her, even taught her to read. But he was an Englishman, and for that reason alone her father had forbidden her to interact with him again. There was little to be done about it, the Irish and the English had been enemies for over a century, there was little hope of that changing now.

Which brought her back to him. Major Henry Haddock, a typical Englishman through and through. Born into a wealthy merchant family, educated at Oxford, groomed for military service where he found his niche as an intelligence officer. His mannerism, his behavior, his politics, it all harmonized with everything British. Except it didn't, he owned slaves, if one could even call them that. It would not do at all to pay them, so he treated them as human beings instead. He gave them proper living conditions, fed them, made sure the doctors checked them over twice a year. He never yelled at them, hit them, or even spoke demeaningly to him. In turn, they seemed to exhibit genuine affection and respect for him, also being protective when others came looking for him. Everything about him was to form and yet clashed against it at the same time. He was kind and gentle, yet relentless in his campaigns against the rebels. She thought back to the dinner party where they had been reintroduced to each other. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the gentle firmness of his hand on her waist. The caution in his eyes as they had danced. The intoxicating smell of is cologne.

It all played havoc with her. She knew her purpose for being here, why she had been invited in particular, why the major had been steered towards her, but here, in his house, she could forget all that. For here, all she was…

She bit her lip in frustration. Damnit, even by herself she could barely get the words out. She took a deep breath and looked at her reflection. _Say it, say it and be done with it._ Here, here all she was, was a girl in…in lo-

 **I warned you that Astrid's emotions would begin to play havoc with her loyalties. This is an AU, so I'm free to take some liberty's with how the story progresses in relation to historical fact. In my story the British aren't going to win, but not everything is going to go down as history has it.**


	12. Chapter XII

**British literature during the Revolutionary War mainly portrayed the American's as rebels using hit and run tactics and causing an overall nuisance of themselves. It's a small leap to classify the rebel's tactics as akin to terrorist tactics. Which led to the question, how would that be made manifest during an era such as this? As always you guys are great, and I really appreciate you taking the time to read my drivel.**

 **-Hawkfrost**

 **Present Day (Early Winter)**

 **1778**

 _It never stops, but what can you do. Life goes on._ He pulled on his shirt and opened the door. Standing before him was lieutenant Thorn, he was holding a report in his hand and he was skimming it. Seeing his superior, he snapped briefly to attention before speaking.

"Major, we have reports of firefights breaking out in various sections- "

Henry interrupted the man severely, "Firefights? Here? What, how?"

The lieutenant shrugged, "I don't know sir, all I know is what we've been told. The battalion command reports they've taken casualties, gunshot casualties."

 _No, not here. Please God not here._ Thoughts of chaos and bloodshed filled Henry's mind. The shouts of the damned again ran out in his ears. _Not again, I won't let it happen again._ He motioned for the soldier to lead him down to the command room. As they descended the stairs, Henry could hear the sounds of activity coming from the floor below.

"Has General Clinton been alerted to the status? And how are we responding?"

The lieutenant didn't pause while giving his answer.

"I'm not sure sir. As it stands you are the highest-ranking officer here. We wanted to wait before taking any aggressive action. We thought it prudent to try to avoid another…Boston incident."

"Yes, quite," Henry replied dryly.

The lieutenant opened the oak wood doors to see a flurry of commotion. Warrant officers and analysts were crossing back in forth like an anthill after its been kicked. Henry walked in and motioned to duty officer to brief him. The information they had was sparse, all they knew for sure was that redcoats had been attacked by armed hostiles. Four had been killed and 9 wounded.

"How did they get in?" Henry shook his head and paced back and forth. "It makes no sense. The harbor's cordoned off and we have patrols running 24/7."

He stopped to look at the blank faces before him. "Well, any bright ideas lieutenant?" Henry's irritation was seeping through.

"I don't know sir. We have received reports of spies operating within the city. Perhaps one of them aided them in their arrival?"

Henry's stomach churned at the suggestion. He knew it could be true, was most likely really, but he was repulsed by the notion. It was his job dammit, his job to make sure the people of this city stayed safe and to eliminate all of the King's enemies. _You failed once before, you will not fail twice._

"Perhaps."

He sat at his desk and began rifling through reports. He raged at the fact that he had no way of monitoring the situation more closely. Everything they had was second-hand reports or that of delirious, half dead soldiers. Who was attacking? How many of them were there? How did they get here?

"I want the streets locked down. Curfew is now enforce; I want patrols on the street blockades set up. No one leaves the city, no one goes out, not until a thorough check is made."

"Yes, sir."

He placed both hands on his desk and took a deep breath. He knew intellectually that there was no benefit to be gained by panicking. _You need to regain control. Take a deep breath and focus up. There's plenty of time to feel bad once the job is over._ He pulled out the boots beside his desk and tugged them on, along with his shirt, vest, and belt. He looked in the mirror, and despite the circumstances, smiled a little. _Looking damn good soldier._

It took him a moment to process what he saw in the reflection. There was this weird orange glow that was suddenly basking everything. _It's too early for a sunri-_. Then the noise hit him. The sound was overwhelming, everywhere at once, and then gone at the same time. It was if the very air had been ripped apart and sucked out. Henry couldn't hear anything, nothing other than this dull ringing in his ears. He yawned a few times to see if that would work but nothing happened. Then he felt the room vibrate, the candles in the room flickered and some blew out. The back of his neck stung and when he touched it, it was slick with blood. _That's odd. Is that, glass?_ With a snap, his hearing came back, and he could hear the screaming in the street. He turned around to see that the windows from his balcony had been shattered from the force of the explosion. The word popped into his brain suddenly and his stomach turned into a ball of lead. He didn't remember instructing his feet to carry him to the window, but after a few seconds, the sounds of crunching glass signified that he was, in fact, on the balcony.

He looked out at the massive billow of black smoke that hung over the city like a hungry predatory bird. The flames of the fire were licking at everything in its path, devouring it in an inferno of heat and rage. It was such an odd contrast with the snow that blanketed the whole area. He stayed locked like that, ignoring the hectic cries of his subordinates, ignoring the blood running from his neck, ignoring everything. All he could do was focus on the flames and the smoke. _I failed, again._

"Major. Major!"

Henry turned around to see lieutenant Thorn standing there, bleeding from a cut on his cheek, he was pressing a rag to it.

"What now sir?" _It's time to come back, boy.  
_

"Get yourself all decked out, then round up as many able-bodied people you can, we're going down to the source of that fire."

Thorn nodded and ran off. Henry turned back around to see flickers of lights in the darkness. His eyebrows drew together as he tried to puzzle it out. At first, he just assumed it was pieces of debris floating around, perhaps embers of the fire. It took him a minute to figure out it wasn't debris but musket shots. _Bloody hell, bloody fucking hell!_

The thought came to him like a flash of lightning. _Astrid!_ He tore off out of the room and up the stairs. _Please, please don't let her be hurt._ He bursted through the door and look around the room wildly. The smoke was stinging his eyes and making him cough. He placed his arm around his mouth to keep the worst of it out.

"Astrid!"

"In here!"

He followed the sound of her voice to find her standing in the kitchen calmly dressing her wound. He stared at her a few moments, mouth open, just gaping.

"What?" she looked at him with mild concern. "Are you all right?" now it was full concern.

"Yeah…are you, are you okay?" He stammered it out.

She smiled and nodded. "Yeah, its nothing major. I caught some glass from the explosion is all, I was standing near the balcony when it went off."

He watched her pluck a two-inch shard out of her arm without even wincing while carrying on a conversation. He was quite simply impressed.

"You're far too modest, miss Hofferson." She chuckled and nodded to the activity down below.

"You have to go, don't you?"

He came closer to her and gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear; she smiled up at him.

"Yeah."

She leaned against him with a resigned smile, so he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close and placing his cheek on the top of her hair. They stayed like that, for a few moments that felt like a few years.

"Just…just come back to me." The words were softly spoken, so softly spoken he didn't think they were for him. He kissed the crown of her head.

"Always."

They enjoyed each other's embrace for a few seconds more.

"Major!" It was Thorn. "Major, are you ready sir?"

With a groan of his own, Henry reluctantly disengaged from the embrace and headed downstairs. Lieutenant Thorn had rounded up 7 other soldiers, all of them loaded up for bear. With a solemn nod, they headed out into the street. It was chaos, as soon as they opened the door, they were almost overwhelmed with it all. The streets were thronging with civilians running, horses were neighing panic, shop owners were boarding up their stores. Any and all semblance of order and procedure was lost. _Worry about that later, for now, you need to eliminate the hostiles._ They moved off into the street.

The further away they got from the manor the more dangerous it got. The sounds of musket shots were louder and more frequent. They made their way through back alleys and narrow walkways. He was tense, so much so he could hear his own ragged breathing. The sounds of glass breaking, footsteps treading, and shouts of the wounded and the dying filled his senses. His eyes were burning from the smoke, it was thick, almost corporeal. Already exhausted from the combat jog, the smoke wasn't helping his oxygen strained lungs. Something sliding off the rooftop to his top right caused him to bring his musket up on reflex, as did all members of his squad. It was nothing, just shingles falling loose from a blown-out house. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and motioned for them to carry on.

The deeper into the blast zone they went, the more the carnage became apparent. Entire houses were reduced to rubble or smoldering flames. The heat so intense that the very air seemed to be on fire, rippling with energy. The bright orange glow blinding them and making it hard to blink, hard to breathe. They could seem people weeping and screaming the names of loved ones that were no doubt already consumed by the ravenous appetite of the fire. They took it all in, the destruction, the death, and they all saw clearly that this was the true face of the rebellion. This was what these rebels did to everything they touched. They brought it all to ruin, there was nothing righteous about the cause. They were the ones that had shirked the natural order of things, they were the ones who refused to repay the Crown for all it had expended protecting them from French and Indian aggression, and they were the ones who had started the bloody conflict. The anger they all felt could not be easily put into words, all each of them knew was that they would have their pound of flesh before the night was up. They would take a life for each lost in this most cowardly of acts.

Henry looked at the faces around him, all twisted with rage and revulsion.

"Take a good look. This is the true face of the rebellion! This is all they are and all they accomplish! They bring to ruin all that is holy and just under the poorly veiled excuse of oppression. The next time someone tries to tell you that you're in the wrong, that Britain's occupation is misguided, just remember this. This is what it looks like when order is removed. This is what you'll be condemning all of his Majesty's subjects to should you give up in the fight."

They drank his words in, they drank the whole situation in. Henry could see it bothered them in a way nothing had before. None of them was idealist by any means, but this nightmare of a scene filled them all with a rage that needed a release. They kept going, they had no choice, these people couldn't be helped, at least not by them.

Along the way, they came across five more soldiers caught on the edges of the blast. They were doing patrols when the sound of muskets drew their attention. Henry puzzled over that, the shooting started before the blast? He cataloged that for later. Their superior officer had been killed so they requested permission to join up with him. He agreed, the more the merrier.

The force of the explosion and the destruction it caused herded them into corridors with apartments on both sides. Most of them were blast scoured, black with smoke and residue. The windows were shot out and some of the drapes were burning still. One of the explosions had knocked a building down and effectively blocked their path, the only way through was by forcing entry into an adjacent apartment. The hole would be tight, and it only permitted one soldier to go at a time. Not just that, the opening was so tight, they would have to toss the weapon in first and then squeeze themselves in after. Private Adams went first, he sent his musket through, and then forced himself in afterward. The process took about thirty seconds. The whole time Henry was nervous, he didn't like this, he didn't like this at all. It was taking too long, and they were too exposed. _This is one hell of a kill-box._ He kept glancing nervously around, his head on a swivel taking in anything and everything. He wasn't the only one feeling it, he saw a lot of nervous faces in the fire lit night. It was hard to listen, the whole city was noisy, on fire literally and emotionally. He checked ahead to see that only the third man had gotten through. _Damn! This is taking too long._ If you asked Henry what made him turn around that last time, he still couldn't give you a satisfying answer. Call it luck, fortune, or divine intervention, but Henry did turn around. He turned around in time to see the shadow move in the window, he turned around in time to see the dark object flung out the window.

The object fell in slow motion, its deadly arc curving through the dark night. Henry shouted a warning and flung himself and the soldier closest to him to the ground. The only cover they had was behind a half-broken wagon. Time continued to slow, so much so that Henry saw the grenade land, it was the size of a grapefruit almost. Black, impossibly black, with a spout at the top with a wick sticking out. He watched as the wick, already lit, reached the end of its rope, the flame sizzling briefly. For a moment nothing happened, and it seemed as if the whole world held its breath. The explosion was loud, not as loud as the ones that lit the city on fire, but loud nonetheless. The ground shook with the force of its violent exhalation. The fragments of the explosive hurled itself in every direction, slamming into the wagon, the brick of the wall, and with a sickening reality, the flesh of the soldiers unfortunate enough not to get out of the way.

Following on the heels of the blast was the distinct staccato of several muskets being fired. Henry and the corporal next to him hugged the ground, hoping the dark and smoke would make them smaller targets for the enemy shooters. The shooting only lasted no more than thirty seconds, but it might as well have been thirty years for what it sounded like, wet thwacking of the rounds slamming into flesh, the pained grunts of the soldiers shot. It was a textbook trap executed to perfection. The bomb had maimed and disoriented them, the smoke had blinded them, and now they were getting slaughtered by shooters who had the advantage of higher ground. They couldn't do anything, getting up meant getting shot, moving meant getting shot. The only course of action was to hunker down, pray, and wait for them to reload.

The opportunity came after the initial rounds had hit. It was only five or six of them on one side of the street. They had staggered their shots, but they hadn't spaced them out enough, the excitement of the explosion or the adrenaline from the bomb had made them sloppy. Now they were all reloading instead of having a continuous field of fire. Henry dragged the corporal up and motioned for four of the soldiers to get on their feet. Henry ordered three soldiers to fire once every fifteen seconds. Once forty-five seconds had passed, the soldiers would swap out with three other soldiers who would continue the onslaught until the original three had reloaded. The pattern of staggered fire would continue until all had retreated back the way they came.

 **What do you think? Does the desire to escape the victimization of British colonization merit such drastic action, or are there simply certain lines that shouldn't be crossed? Also, I do have a poll up on my account that pertains to this story, I'd love to see what you guys think.**


	13. Chapter XIII

**I used to read all these posts about how hard college was and laugh because nothing could be that bad…right? For real I'm this close to setting my professor on fire. In between the lack of sleep and caffeine pills, this came out. Hope you enjoy.**

 **-Hawkfrost**

 **Present Day**

 **Early Winter**

 **1778**

Astrid stood on the balcony and gawked in horror at the grisly scene that was unfolding before her. The embers from the inferno were mixing with the snow in the air creating a fiery image. It was all so overwhelming. She could hear the sounds of sorrow carrying over the wind and through her ears. She placed her hands on the railing to steady herself from the sudden wave of nausea that swept over her. She closed her eyes and counted silently in her head. _One, two, three, four, five._ On the five count, she exhaled slowly and opened her eyes. The carnage hadn't abated but she wasn't feeling like her heart was trying to escape her ribcage anymore. She looked down to see Henry issuing orders to his men, all of them standing in perfect formation despite the chaos behind them. _Or was it because of the chaos that ensued?_ Perhaps the events had shocked them so greatly they were operating mechanically, purely on training. She saw Henry then, straight-backed, shoulders squared, feet evenly spaced apart. The world seemed as if it was ending, but you never would have guessed by looking at him. She didn't know why, she didn't want to know why, not at that moment, for she knew the answer would be too troubling, but she felt pride at seeing him. Seeing him take charge of the situation and run headlong into danger without thinking about his own well being, not because he was reckless or unconcerned, but because for him it was simple. People were in need and he could help, therefore he would help.

He finished giving the orders and they began to move out, but not before he turned and looked up at her, a knowing smile on his face. He gave her a bow and proceed off. She smiled at him then, a real one, a real smile not many people had ever seen her have. As she did though, a sense of dread lanced through her heart, almost a physical sensation. _This could be the last time you see him._ The voice whispered the words into her head and instantly exploded, sending its treacherous fragments into every nook and cranny of her brain. She shook her head to dispel the horrifying image and stepped back into the house. She took a few stabilizing breaths and regained her composure. She wasn't some simpering farm girl reduced to tears over every damn fool thing. Blame it on her state of emotional upheaval or shock from the explosion, but it took a moment to realize she heard movement coming from the other room. _Danger!_

It was her belief, and that of all people who routinely put themselves in harm's way, that each person has a voice buried deep in the recesses of the mind. A leftover genetic defense mechanism from when man was a hunter-gatherer fending off beast by firelight. This voice whispers warnings to look behind you, to take cover, to run. This voice is what kept man alive in his early primitive state of being, what allowed him to thrive and repopulate. An unfortunate consequence of this was civilization. As man progressed and became more advanced he became softer, corpulent. Society's greatest failure was reducing fear to a minor annoyance. Man stopped listening to this voice, this voice that warned of impending danger. As a result, man died, in quantities like never before. While most of mankind had long since stopped listening to this voice, some still did. Some recognized this voice was an early indicator of harm that had yet to be detected by the brain.

So when she heard that voice, telling her not to make noise, telling her to move slowly, she listened. She crept up to the door as did the lion a gazelle. Her bare feet making hardly a sound on the padded carpet of the room. _Danger!_ She froze in her tracks without really knowing why. It took her a moment to realize that the noise had stopped for some reason. She didn't hear the sound of a door closing or footsteps receding, not that she had the first time, but still. After a few more tense seconds in which her heart was trying, with varying levels of success, to escape out of her chest, she heard the noise resume. She was close enough now to identify it as paper rustling and objects being moved with cautious haste. _He's looking for something._ The thought came to her in a flash. That explains the pause, whatever he's looking for he hasn't found it yet and wants to make sure he's not interrupted. She approached the door and ease it opened gently, no more than a slight crack. She could make out through the flickering candlelight a man-sized shadow on the far wall, the shadow was hooded and bent over Henry's desk, ruffling through his items. She watched for several seconds trying to figure what was going on. It made no sense, how did this man get past security, better yet how did he know Henry wouldn't be home? And during all this chaos his first instinct is to come here? Why would you risk it? Unless- _move!_

The man, the shadow, straightened abruptly and whirled around. Astrid held her breath as the sound of his footsteps came closer and closer to the door. She could see through the slit at the bottom the shadow of his shoes as they came to a stop a few inches from where she was standing. She didn't move, didn't make any noise to alert him to her presence. Her best advantage at this point was surprise and she wasn't ready to give it up yet. The silence dragged on as if fighting through quicksand and an eternity passed before the footsteps receded and the sounds of rustling resumed in earnest. _He's making more noise, he must be getting nervous._ She catwalked over to the balcony and looked out below. The streets were bustling with activity, there were soldiers prowling the streets, muskets ready, horses and carriages were flowing up and down, some carrying soldiers to hotspots others bringing back wounded. The sounds of musket shots had picked up greatly and she could see the more impactful flash of what looked like grenades. _Why is he here?_ Despite all that was going on she was primarily an intelligence officer, questions are what she's supposed to ask and answers are what she's supposed to find.

What possible reasons could he have for coming here at this moment? That's easy, it's no secret who's house this is. Anyone with half a brain might want a peek inside the spymaster's temple, but who would have the audacity to do so? _The Rebels._ The thought materialized in her mind with startling clarity. _Why did I think that? Better yet, why did I think Rebels and not Patriots?_ The voice was silent, it gave her no answer. She dismissed the thought for later reflection, there were more important tasks at hand. If the man in the other room was a Reb- Patriot operative, how did he get here? Not just here in the manor, but in the city as well? There was no way he could've made it past the checkpoints and blockade. Her thoughts were racing now and a sense of dread was building. How did he know to be here at this moment in time, how did he know an explosion would go off drawing most military personnel away from their defensive positions? How could he have known the sudden influx in wounded and panicked civilians would overwhelm the few guards that remained? The cold sensation that had started when the first thought came to her solidified into a ball of ice in her stomach. How did he know the guards, already exhausted from a nights sentry duty, terrified by the sudden violence, and panicked by the surge of people seeking safety would provide him a stellar opportunity to enter the most secure of buildings? He couldn't, not unless he knew it was going to happen in advance, not unless months before he had embedded himself in the civilian populace. Watching, waiting for the day to come. Not unless he also had friends, compatriots, to start small scale engagements in order to keep the military focused and away from the manor. This wasn't an accident, this was a deliberate plan. _Oh my God!_ Anger and revulsion warred within her for dominance. She heard the sound of a door clicking shut and she crept quickly over to the door and peeked out the crack again. The shadow was gone and she was alone. She waited a few seconds to be sure, the entered the room and walked over to the table where he had been standing. Whoever had been here had gone to great lengths to conceal his presence. Nothing apparent was out of place unless you had a good memory and paid attention to small things. Like how the map was now slightly crooked and a few of the ink holders were know slightly off center. She looked down at the map and realized what had occurred. Whoever had been here had been looking for the injection site that Henry planned on using to disseminate the counterfeit money, they took a couple of the fake ones as a reference and no doubt copied down the address of where the fake money was being minted. _I did this, I killed all those people._ Guilt like a wave crashed over her and threatened to suffocate her.

00000

Henry's breathing was ragged and his vision was reduced to pinpricks of light. The sounds of battle were overwhelmingly loud. His unit had damn near been massacred and they had escaped with their lives just barely. They had managed to link up with other beleaguered soldiers in order to form something akin to a defensive formation, a defensive formation they were now fiercely holding. He'd been focusing so much on the oncoming enemy he had neglected to watch his flank, that damn grenadier had come out of nowhere. He had managed to get out of the lethal radius before it went off, but the impact of it still flung him to the ground. The ground on which he now lay, exhausted, breathless, and feeling very much like he was at death's door. He felt arms dragging him up and propping him against the stonework of a building, his ears were still ringing from the blast and he tasted blood whenever he tried to swallow. Upon spitting he confirmed his suspicions. There, in front of him, the dark blob congealed, mixing with the dirt and musket shot residue. Someone was standing in front of him and his lips were moving, he seemed to be frantically trying to communicate something to him but it was to no avail. His hearing was still shot and it was too dark to read the man's lips. Henry slowly turned his head around the corner to see some men jump over the turned wagon, they weren't redcoats that was eminently obvious. One them, using his hatchet cracked open the skull of a soldier who had the misfortune of paying less attention than he should have been. The blade sunk in with disturbing ease and even through the flickering shadows of the fire lit dark, Henry could see the skull break and shards of bone flake off.

The soldier in front of Henry grabbed his musket and thrust it through and out the back of the…the rebel? God his brain still wasn't working. The rebel tensed up as the blade lanced through him before sagging onto the ground, dead, his blood and that of the soldier he'd killed mixing together. It was almost poetic really. The soldier came back and again yelled at him, this time, his hearing returned.

"Sir! What do we do now!"

Henry stared looked at this man, boy really, he couldn't have been more than 18 years of age and wondered what twist of fate had resulted in him being here, thousands of miles away from home. Shaking his head Henry grabbed the soldiers arm.

"Help me up. Tighten the defense line, we hold here or we die here."

The young man nodded and took off. With a groan, Henry dragged himself up and sagged against the wall. He looked around the battlefield and was struck by how many had died, it was appalling. After that damn bloody ambush, he had found as many soldiers he could and formed a defensive line that stretched several blocks. They dug their heels in and allowed the enemy to make several hit and run probes. Henry then ordered the middle section to fall back in an organized retreat, luring the enemy into following them and into an over-reach. The goal was to lure them down into a controlled set of alleyways that led into a chokepoint. Henry liked the symmetry of using their own idea against them. With the enemies hot on their heels, they jumped over the barrier. A barrier that hid behind it four cannons and fifteen muskets. The only word for what followed next was a slaughter. The enemy offensive withered and died before their eyes. After that, they had steadily pushed them back further and further until the only thing behind them was the harbor and the water. They fought like the animals they were, but it was to no avail.

Now that they had time to gather their forces and form an organized unit, the Rebels stood no chance. They splintered under the steady and relentless fire of His Majesty's soldiers. No one could stand up to the British Army, not for long. They weren't considered the most powerful and professional army for nothing. Soon, the sounds of musket shots died down and the few rebels that remained were on their knees, hands above their head. His men made quick work of disarming them. After it was safe, Henry came forward to stand in front of these most dishonorable of men. His soldiers were standing in half circle behind him, fully alert.

He gazed down at them, he wanted to know, he wanted to know what the eyes of a man who could kill so many looked like. He was saddened to see that they looked no different than the murderers and thieves he'd seen so many of. _So little separates beast that pretend to be men?_ He stopped in front of a particular one, this one wasn't cowering. He looked at Henry and the disdain was clear on his face.

"And who might you be?"

The man spat in the sand in front of him. One of the soldiers came forward and slammed the butt of his musket into his nose, breaking it. The rebel crumpled into the ground, cradling his broken face.

"Get him back up." What the soldier had done was a technical violation of the rules, but Henry was beyond caring.

These men, these animals, had spilled the blood of hundreds of people he was sworn to protect and they would be made to pay for their sins.

 ****Note** Grenadiers were in existence in the 18th century. They were used by both the French and the British. These were soldiers armed with small explosives balls that resembled large musket shot but smaller cannon balls. They would throw them at fortified positions. So it all comes together, the bombing, Astrid's arranged relationship with our beloved major. So, what happens next?**


	14. Chapter XIV

**I wanted to thank you all for your patience. Finals week has been a bear, but it's over now. This chapter came out a caffeine-fueled study session. For the next few chapters, I'll be focusing on present-day plot threads, such as Henry's operation to undermine the fledgling American economy, Astrid's role as a spy in swan manor, and what rebel high command is doing.**

 **(Present Day, Winter 1778)**

 **-Hawkfrost**

Henry didn't think it was possible to be this exhausted. He'd been tired before of course, marches in the badlands, sentry duties as a private, and the like had given him endurance. But this was at a level he'd never wish to reach. It was as if his life force had been drained out of him and all that was left was a broken and battered shell of a man. Just climbing the stairs to his private residence seemed to be an effort beyond his ability. He closed his eyes and leaned against the railing. _Breathe in, and out._ As he did so, he recanted the mantra he taught himself when the nightmares became too much. _Listen only to the sound of my voice._ His breathing deepened. _Let your mind relax. Let your thoughts drift. Let the bad memories fade._ The cacophony of the night's events seemed to fade away. _Let peace be upon you. Surrender yourself to your dreams. Let them wash over you like the gentle waves of the bluest ocean._ One of his earliest and fondest memories were being a child on his family's boat, feeling the waves gently rock him to sleep in his mother's arms. _Let them envelop you. Comfort you. Imagine somewhere calm. Imagine somewhere safe. Imagine yourself in a frozen forest._ The beating of his heart was the only sound in the world. _You're standing in a clearing. Trees around you so tall, they touch the sky. Pure white snowflakes fall all around. You can feel them melt on your skin. You are not cold. It cannot overcome the warmth of your beating heart. You are in control. Calm. At peace._

As Henry reopened his eyes, he could feel the stress at bay, no longer pounding at the forefront of his mind, but receding to the edges. The exhaustion hadn't abated, but at least he no longer felt like expiring on the steps. The sounds of his boots thudding against the steps was a memory. _Thud,_ sounds of a musket going off. _Thud,_ screams of the savages as they attacked. _Thud,_ his own terror and shame at seeing his platoon being cut to pieces. _Thud,_ Astrid. _Thud,_ her smile. _Thud,_ her laughter. _Thud,_ the way her nose crinkled. _Thud,_ death. His heart skipped a few beats. _Thud,_ blood rushing down her throat. He started gripping the railing so hard he could feel his bones creak. _Thud,_ her looking at him as the life left her. His mind snapped from this macabre reverie as he reached the last step, his heart pounding, his breathing coming hard and fast. He took a moment to compose himself, not wanting her to see him in such a state.

He slowly opened the door, eyes scanning the room for any possible threats. The early morning glow of the sun was casting shadows over everything, causing his battle exacted brain to panic slightly. He was seeing movement where there was none just because of the poor lighting. With a rueful shake of his head, he closed the door and entered his house. _Jumping at shadows like an old woman._ He chuckled lightly and hung his bloodied and shot coat on the rack. He couldn't be bothered to deal with it at the moment, anything other than collapsing in his bed seemed to be beyond him. He was so exhausted he didn't even hear the soft tread of footsteps behind him, didn't notice the air change signifying a person was moving, didn't notice the subtle pleasing aroma of perfume. He did, however, feel when soft hands wrapped around his shoulders from behind. He did notice when a head of sun-kissed blonde hair gently rested against his back. He turned around to look down at her. She seemed as tired as he was, her head drooping and her smile lazy. He brought her close to him; squeezing her firmly but gently, as if she might disappear if he didn't hold on to her tightly. They said nothing for a while, content to simply hold each other in their arms. The past several hours had been a completely exhausting affair leaving both of them drained of their humanity. She gently pulled back to gaze up at him, her eyes taking in his blood soaked clothes, tousled hair, and battered face. She gave him a slow shake of her head and a rueful smile. She gingerly traced a finger along the line of a bruise and he winced. He pulled her back into his chest and rested his head on the top of her golden crown of hair.

"Are you alright?" Her voice was soft and tentative as if the words didn't want to come out but did anyway.

He ran his fingers over her shoulder, feeling her shudder slightly in response. He breathed in everything about her, her touch, her weight, the way her hair fell down her neck and over her shoulder. The morning sunlight was casting her in heavenly light and for a moment he wasn't entirely sure she was real, or if he were getting a glimpse into a realm denied mortals. When he didn't respond she leaned back and looked at him, the worry in her eyes a tangible thing. He ran his thumb across her jawline and she leaned into his touch, eyes flittering shut.

"A gentleman never breaks his promise." She gave him a small shake of her head and a rueful laugh.

She disengaged from their embrace and headed towards the kitchen. "Go undress, I'll draw a bath."

He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"For you, and you alone you lecher." She called out while laughing.

He watched her leave, his eyes piercing the space she had just been occupying. He told himself, at that moment, that he would do everything in his power to keep her safe. He had failed to keep this city safe, but he would not fail to keep her alive. He made his way upstairs to his office, he needed a few moments alone to compose himself. He removed the key from its hidden location and inserted it into the locking mechanism, gave it a firm twist, and felt the lock give. Pushing open the door, he placed the key back in his pocket. He went to his chair and crumpled in it. He was away from everyone, and he took the chance to take a deep breath ragged breath. Scratch that, he made several attempts at taking a deep breath. After a few tries, he succeeded. He could still taste musket powder in the back of his throat, his ears still rang from the force of the grenade explosions, his body ached from the trauma of hitting the ground.

Maybe it was his exhaustion, maybe it was stress, whatever the reason was, he failed to notice a few of his desk items were out of place. He failed to notice that insertion points and defensive locations had been looked at. So overwhelmed by the horrors he was seeing when he closed his eyes he ignored his training, he ignored the small voice in his head whispering that there was danger. Sniffing and recomposing himself, he locked the door behind him and made his way back downstairs. He passed by the kitchen and went into the bedroom, from there he entered the washroom. He looked at himself in the mirror and had to pause. The face was bruised and battered, the reflection's eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, and he was bleeding from several locations. _Christ man, you look awful._

He started removing his clothing, taking off his blood soaked shirt and throwing it in the corner. With trembling fingers, he undid the strings of his boots and took those off. His trousers came next, with a groan, he peeled them off, wincing as they pinched his sore and bloodied flesh. He looked at the boiling water in the tub and was about to climb in when a cold shiver ran through his body and the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. He turned slowly, knowing what he would see, hoping with all his might it wouldn't be there.

He was back, standing there as if he never left. Dressed in a blood red coat, white trousers, musket slung over his shoulder, pride and arrogance etched in his face. It was so peculiar, for the man standing before him looked liked him. When he moved his hand, so did the reflection. When he blinked, it blinked too. The similarities stopped there. This creature's eyes were cold, unfeeling. It seemed liked Beelzebub himself was staring back at him. And when he stared into his eyes, he saw nothing but death and destruction, fear and chaos and the dissolution of everything holy. The reflection reached out, extending its arm, so he did as well; and as their fingers touched, the reflection moved. He hadn't.

The mirror shimmered and the reflection seemed to become corporeal. Its eyes lost their hollowed out look, taking a long shuddering breath, it looked around the room for a moment; focusing on him, it moved closer and grinned.

He ripped his hand from the mirror so quickly, it was as if he was struck by lightning. The reflection smiled cruelly at him and made a sound that a demon might consider to be laughter. Breathing heavily he took a step back. "You're. Not. Really. Here."

The creature stared back at cruelly, as if bored. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

The reflection appeared almost confused by the question, "I'm a part of you, always have been always will be."

"What?" He didn't understand.

The reflection let out a chuckle and smiled. "Shit Hiccup, I've missed you. You had me worried for a second there. Got you a new woman and a new post, almost forgot about me didn't you? You stopped taking the opium, smart."

Henry's heart was trying with increasing levels of success to climb out of his chest, his vision swam, and his hearing was faltering. Not with regards to the reflection in the mirror, he could hear him just fine. Vaguely he could her Astrid's voice calling to him, asking him if he was alright. But she seemed to be a thousand miles away, out of reach.

At hearing her voice, the reflection looked out the doorway, hunger in his eyes. "Ahh, the Irish are a horrid bunch, but damned if their women aren't fine." Henry's rage returned with a rush.

"You lay one hand on her an-" the reflection laughed with contempt and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"If anything happens to the broad it'll be your fault, not mine. You haven't told her have you? That you know her secret?" Henry's blood froze in his veins, threatening to suffocate him. "Tell me, major, he spat the word as if it were an insult, will they hang just her or will you follow her into the gallows?"

The reflection's smile grew wider. "How exactly do you think this will end? You see, I think this will end in tragedy, and once the blood dries, and the bodies stop twitching, I'll come out to play. And this time, it'll be you who's been abandoned and forgotten!"

The reflection smiled once more, then, with a salute, dissolved into nothing.

"Henry?" Her voice was soft and gentle. He looked at her for a moment, not recognizing her. She came forward and kissed him softly, and it took all of his discipline not to break down in tears then and there.

She led him to the tub and eased him in; the boiling hot water attacking his cramping muscles and exhausted frame. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, the voices still warring in his head.

 ***** Note*** So the next chapter might be "M" who knows what might happen with Henry and Astrid in a steaming bathtub…Also, we'll get more insight into the reflection Henry sees in the mirror and the battle that still gives him nightmares.**


	15. Chapter XV

**Disregard the M warning at the end of my previous chapter, I've had a different idea.**

 **-Hawkfrost**

 **(Present Day, Early Winter 1778)**

Astrid picked up the soap soaked-sponge and began gently scrubbing at the dirt and grime sticking to his chest and arms. A small part of her was embarrassed at the fact she was doing such an intimate act with a men to whom she was not wed, but the rest of her was too tired and angry to give a damn. _God knows you've done worse things than this._ He didn't react, he barely took notice of her at all, so lost in his own thoughts, was he. The room could've caught fire and he wouldn't have taken notice. She rolled up her sleeves and grabbed a bar of soap, she worked up a lather and began scrubbing his scalp. Still, he took no note, not of her closeness, not of her fingers in his hair, not of the soap trickling down into his face and eyes. So she continued to scrub, trying not to speak, for if she did her voice would crack. If she did, he would ask why, and she couldn't very well tell him that the reason she was crying is because she was complicit in the deaths of all those people out there. Thinking about it, processing it again, was causing bile to bubble up in the back of her throat and she had to take a break from massaging his hair to regain control of herself. With an angry shake of her head and a deep breath, she resumed her task. It was only then she realize he had been staring at her through the mirror. She froze, wondering if she had been carrying her emotions on her face. What would he think if he saw that she felt guilty? He'd probably want to know why she felt guilty which would lead her right back to square one of not being able to tell him.

She forced a smile and tried not to think about the many secrets she was carrying. Instead, she avoided his gaze and focused her efforts on eradicating all vestiges of uncleanliness on his person. It gave her an excuse as to why her hands were shaking and why she didn't talk much. So sat there in silence they did, the only noise being that of the water being disturbed and the sounds of their breathing. Hers like a horse after a race, his as if he was barely alive. Once she was done, she excused herself and permitted him to wash…the rest of him and then dry himself off. She closed the door behind her and put her hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. With a supreme effort of will, she forced down all errant emotions. Straightening her back, she strode into the kitchen to fix something for them to eat.

She decided on a simple meal of deer meat, a block of cheese, and a loaf of bread with some dried fruit. When she had first arrived here, in this manor, she was astounded at the availability and freshness of the food stores. She knew farmers and peasants that could barely feed themselves, let alone their families, but if Henry, or anyone who worked here, was hungry all they had to do was ask. Some maid or servant would fix them something to eat. _While so many starved, these arrogant few dined well on whatever caught their fancy._ At least, that's what she had thought when she first arrived, now, it seemed as normal as waking up in a soft bed with nice comforters. _Soft bed with nice comforters? God, you have been corrupted by privilege, haven't you?_ The words should've been spoken in disgust, she should've felt ashamed for forgetting so quickly all that she had suffered at the hands of the British, but she didn't. _Why?_ The question came to her as she gingerly sliced the meat with a rather sharp knife. As the blade connected firmly with the wooden board and as each piece of venison took shape, she pondered over her feelings.

 _Because you're angry, and you're tired of being angry._ The statement rang out with the finality of a death sentence. She had been angry for so long, angry at the English for the oppression of Ireland, angry at her parents for being so bloody foolish, angry at them for dying and leaving her all alone. It was her anger that had made her join up with the rebels, her anger that had flared at the humiliation of being thought of as nothing more than a cook or a maid. That anger that caused her to, quite easily, break the wrist of the soldier that lacked the good sense to avoid touching her. After he had stopped crying, her superiors had reconsidered her value. So joined she had, as one of the members of the Culper spy ring at first. Before being reassigned to New York to serve as an addition to (Blank). It was thanks to that assignment that she had been hired at the Loyalist Tavern, it was because of that she had met Henry, a most peculiar of men. She sliced open the bread and laid the strips of meat inside, reaching over, she grabbed the cheese and began cutting into thin strips as well. _But what does this mean? You were sent here, to him, as a spy. A plant in order to surveil, and if possible, disrupt British intelligence efforts._ She looked out over the balcony, the sun had risen on the snow-kissed city and the fires were no longer burning, but the smoke remained. She looked out over at the destruction and recoiled at the pointlessness of it all. _All this, for a drop of blood? For what? So that Rebel Command might be able to ascertain injection points in Henry's counterfeiting operation? All these people died, for a bloody map?_ She still felt guilty for her role in all this, but she was more so appalled by the lengths the Patriots were willing to go to throw off the shackles of British colonialism. She snorted, and they say the Brits are murders.

"Perhaps we are, but this murderer is starving, and owes you a thank you."

She damn near jumped out of her skin at hearing his voice a few feet behind her. He was standing there, looking far better than he had only a little ago. He was dressed now, the beginning of that grin on his face again. She realized how foolish she must look staring at him with her mouth open and cleared her throat.

"How long have you been standing there?"

He grinned at her. "Long enough to appreciate the concentration you give to, uh, handling meat." The eyebrow wiggling again.

She couldn't help herself, a short peal of laughter escaped from her and she rolled her eyes. He laughed then grew serious for a moment.

"I mean that. Thank you."

Astrid shifted uncomfortably. She found it almost intoxicating to be the focus of his gaze, with all its intensity. It was as if his eyes were peering into the deepest layers of herself, unraveling all the layers and walls she spent so much time carefully constructing until she was naked. Left bare with nothing hidden but a sickening realization that she found more comfort in the idea of him seeing her so completely, then she did fear. She made a dismissive notion and gestured to the food she had prepared. She took the moment of interruption to bring her breathing back down to something akin to a normal level. He sat at the table and she placed his plate in front of him, taking her plate, she sat as well. He didn't take her eyes off her, continuing to watch her with that unnerving intensity. She stared back him, trying to hide the warring emotions within her.

"Henry you're making me nervous."

He gave her a rueful smile and leaned back in his chair. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. I was coming to a decision is all."

He picked up his knife and used it to cut a chunk of the cheese, using the knife as a plate, he brought it to his lips. "I keep replaying in my head the past 12 hours. The thing I can't get past is how the Rebels could've snuck that much explosive material past the checkpoints, sentry posts, and navy patrols."

Astrid's heart had skipped a few beats.

"It makes no sense. New York is as secure as London, maybe even more so. There's simply no way they could've brought all the materials needed. Not just that, they set up pre-designated demolition points, and kill boxes. Which means someone had to plan this out, someone had to surveil optimal defensive and offensive locations. Someone had to time patrol duration and guard changes. None of this would be possible." He paused and looked at her again, his eyes ablaze with fury.

"That is, it wouldn't be possible without help, highly placed help. Which means we have a traitor in this city. Someone who walks among us under the guise of a loyal subject, of a friend, of a tavern owner, of a lover. All the while secretly plotting the most shameful and hideous crimes known to man."

Astrid wasn't breathing now and her fingers were gripping her knife so tightly she was afraid she'd break them. Her face was as rigid and stonily as blocks that made this house. _This is it, this is how I die._

Henry's stare didn't waver in intensity or focus, and with each passing moment, she felt more and more of her life ebb away until she was left with barely enough strength to remain upright. A few seconds more, and he looked back down at his plate. "Whoever he is, he'd better pray I don't find him. For when I do." His voice became a murderous whisper. "I will take a mallet, and crush. His. Balls."


	16. Chapter XVI

**I wanted to thank you guys for bearing with me, it has been crazy around here lately and writing has been somewhat difficult. The "Battle of York" "ABY" will be a lynchpin of this story, there is no going back and the effects of this action will be indelible. The war in America's had the whole world watching, it was the first time a colony had risen up in open warfare against is sovereign masters. We'll start diving into how this is affecting the geopolitical landscape of 18th century Europe.**

 **(3 weeks ABY, 1778, Winter)**

Astrid watched with growing mirth as he tried and failed to knot his tie. It seemed almost incongruous for this man, so trained by order and routine, to have trouble knotting a simple tie. If she was being honest, she lived for moments like these. She was still "asleep" after the events other, physical exertions. Her body ached in pleasurable sort of way, sore but satisfied after the workout it had been subjected to. So lie there she did, not moving, not wanting him to know she was awake. Every time she slept over, and every time he had to leave early, he would kiss her forehead ever so gently. He never woke her, not wanting to disturb her sleep. What she didn't want him to know was that she had been awake each and every time. She avoided telling him because she didn't want him to stop. But this morning wasn't like the others, Henry had been called in to answer for his failings. General Clinton was most angered by this horrendous attack apparently. _With acting skills like that, its a wonder he isn't in the theater._ This catastrophic failure would ultimately land on his desk and it was said he was in a dark mood. It took all of her discipline not to snort at the thought. The general wasn't the slightest bit concerned with the deaths of hundreds of the subjects he was supposed to protect, he wasn't even really bothered that they had died at all, he was simply consternated that they had died, on _his_ watch. With the war going as badly as it was, a blow like this could result in…reshuffling at the top.

She looked out the corner of her eye and paid more attention to him now, her words echoing in the back of her mind. _Reshuffling at the top…could Henry be so nervous because he thinks his name will be next to the General's on the "to be hanged" list?_ The thought filled her with dread, wrapping itself around her spine and squeezing with gradual pressure. Sending a tendril of cold and fear into her every being. _Stop. It._ She bit the words out, her anger burning away her fear. _You're acting like a bloody child._ She rolled over at sat up, cross-legged, her scowl still etched into her face. Henry's eyes focused on her through the mirror and he gave a small chuckle at seeing her expression.

"You look worse than I do, and I'm the one who's hide might get plastered above the fireplace in Whitehall."

She rolled her eyes. "That's not even close to being humorous."

He nodded solemnly and continued working on his tie, brow furrowed. She reached over and put on his nightshirt and went to stand behind him, resting her head on his back. She could feel him breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest had always been soothing to her. Its stability and continuity appealed to her in a way hard to express with words. Now, the breathing was slightly erratic. She clenched her fingers around his waist as the waves of guilt came again. She had been wrestling with the turbulent emotions, hiding it from everyone around her. It was like a constant companion that she couldn't shake, try as she might. She woke up and there it was, she met with her handler and there it was. The only time it faded was when she spent time with Henry, but that was a double-sided pence. She watched the stress of the preceding weeks take its toll, heard him pacing all hours of the night as he tried to repair and maintain order in this fractured city. And for her part, Astrid was deeply ashamed of her role in it. She saw the effect in the faces of people as she walked down the street, saw their empty, passive faces. Still in shock, dumbfounded by the carnage that had been inflicted on them. Nothing like this had happened on such a scale before. The series of explosions had reduced several blocks of the city to rubble and collapsed houses. The bombs themselves weren't all that powerful, but the engineers had been meticulous in their placement. They had used the intel packet she'd sent them to place the bombs along structural weak points, causing much damage and knocking down adjacent houses in the process. What no one had fully accounted for was the fires. New York was a harbor city with lots of wood lying around, lots of pitch lying around as well. All the pitch had needed was a strong wind to carry smoking debris and floating sparks to ignite. And ignite it had, causing a massive fireball and fire intensity not seen since the days of Nebuchadnezzar. It had taken four days for the flames to fully extinguish. A fourth of the city was now black, charred smoking remains, and she saw how heavily this weighed on Henry's shoulders, how it weighed on those under his command.

The Times had posted that this attack was a critical turning point in the war. Astrid couldn't help but wonder about her place in it. The more she thought about it, the more she pondered over her own politics, she found her future murky, no longer clear like it once was. Henry turned around and wrapped her in a hug, resting his cheek on the crown of her head, she, in turn, wrapped her arms tightly around him and pulled him close, wanting him to feel how much he meant to her. Knowing that her words could never do it justice.

00000

The bookshop was in the Burlington Arcade, the recently constructed amalgamation of shops in what was becoming the more fashionable part of Piccadilly. It was sandwiched between one of London's custom tailors, this one catered mainly to the upper class who used the arcade as a way to keep abreast of modern fashions, and a jeweler. It had the sort of smell that draws bibliophiles as surely as the scent of nectar draws a bee. The musty, dusty odor of dried out paper and leather binding. The shop's owner was contrastingly young, dressed in a suit whose shoulders were sprinkled with dust. He started every day by running a cloth over the shelves, and the books were ever exuding new quantities of it. It had become such a routine part of his day that he had even grown to like it. The store had an ambiance that he dearly loved, the store did a small but lucrative volume of business depending less on commoners than a discreet number of regular customers from the upper reaches of London society.

The owner, a Mr. Niles Matten, traveled a great deal. Often boarding a ship or carriage at short notice to participate in an auction of some deceased gentleman's library. A battered ledger book listed sales going as far back as the 1740s, in which were listed hundreds of sales and the shop's book catalogue was made of simple filing cards in small wooden boxes. One set listing books by title and another by author. All writing was done with an expensive quill pen. The store's stationery bore the "by appointment to" crests of four royal family members. The arcade was no more than a thirty-minute uphill walk to Buckingham Palace. The wooden door had a fifty-year-old bell hanging off the top of the frame, it rang.

"Good morning Mr. Matten."

"And to you sir," Niles answered one of his regulars as he stood.

He had an accent so neutral his customers had him pegged for a native of three different regions.

"I have the first edition Defoe, the one you wrote about earlier this week. Just came in yesterday."

"Is this the one from that collection in Cork you spoke about?"

"No sir, I believe its originally from the estate of Sir John Claggett, near Cottom Prior. I found it at Holsteads in Cambridge."

"A first edition?"

"Most certainly sir."

The book dealer did not react noticeably. The code phrase was both constant and changing. Matten made frequent trips to Ireland to purchase books from the estates of deceased collectors or from dealers in the country. When the customer mentioned any country in Great Britain he indicated the destination of the information. When he questioned the edition of the book, he also indicated its importance. Matten pulled the book off the shelf and laid it on his desk. The customer opened it with care, running his finger down the title page.

"In an age of moth-eaten and poor workmanship." He said with appreciation.

"Indeed." Matten nodded. Both men's love for the art of bookbinding was genuine, any good cover becomes more real than its builders expect.

"The leather is in remarkable condition." His visitor grunted agreement. "I must have it. How much?"

The dealer didn't answer, instead, Matten removed a card from one of the wooden boxes under his desk and handed to his customer. He gave the card only a cursory look. "Done." The customer sat down on the store's only other chair and opened his satchel.

"I have another job for you. This is an early copy of The Vicar of Wakefield, I found it last month in a shop up at Cornwall."

He handed the book over. Matten needed only a single look at its condition. "Scandalous."

"Can your chap restore it?"

"I don't know." The leather was cracked, some of the pages had been folded and the binding was frayed almost to nothing.

"I'm afraid the attic in which they found it had a leaky roof." The customer said casually.

"Oh?" _Is the information that important?_ Matten looked up. "A tragic waste."

"How else can you explain it?" The man shrugged.

"I'll see what I can do. He's not a miracle worker you know." _Is it that important?_

 _"_ I understand, still, the best you can arrange." _Yes, it's that important._

 _"_ Of course sir." Matten opened his desk drawer and withdrew the cash box. The customer removed his wallet from his satchel and counted out the fifty-pound notes. Matten checked the amount then placed the book in a stout cardboard box that he tied with string. Seller and buyer shook hands, the transfer was complete. The customer walked south towards Piccadilly, then turned right heading west towards green park and downhill to the palace.

Matten took the envelope that had been hidden in the book and tucked it away in a drawer. He finished making his ledger entry that noted that he would need to speak to the travel registrar about securing passage to Cork where he would meet a fellow dealer in rare books and have lunch at the Old Bridge Restaurant before catching a ship home. It never occurred to him to open the envelope, that was not his job. The less he knew the less was vulnerable if he were to be caught. Matten had been trained by professionals and the first ruled pounded into his head had been "need to know." He ran the intelligence operation and he needed to know how to do that, he didn't always need to know what specific information he gathered.


	17. Chapter XVII

**(Present Day, Winter 1778)**

It took considerable effort to move through the American forest in fall, making minimal noise. The birds, the dead leaves, branches, and shrubs conspired against you to announce your arrival to all who took the time to listen. The nine men moving in a single staggered line were acutely aware of this disadvantage. The pressure to move rapidly while still maintaining stealth drained a man in a way that wasn't easily understood. Each one of them held their rifles in hands that would've been slick with sweat if it wasn't for the gloves they all wore. Elbows tuck, heads on a swivel they made their approach through the dark, the only illumination coming from the slivers of moonlight penetrating the giant trees. Casting everything into a magical hue. They took no note of this, the only thing on the minds of these nine men was the dim glow of the fire ahead and the sounds of laughter and bits of conversation carrying over the wind.

Lieutenant Holbrook raised his right and made a fist, at once the formation halted and dropped to one knee. The soldier bringing up the rear scanned the forest continually for threats. The soldiers in line hugged the closest cover to them and made sure their weapons were ready to fire. All held their breath as the reason for the ordered halt grew closer and closer. Coming up from the enemy camp was a redcoat, uniformed stained with sweat and debris. His gait indicated he was inebriated, the drunken laughter simply confirmed it. He stumbled through the dark cursing as he tripped over thorns and such. The Lieutenant unsheathed his knife and shifted positions. The soldier was now a bare 20 feet away when he stopped at a tree he liked and unbuttoned his pants. A few seconds later, the sound of his sigh and of his urine hitting the ground reached them. Slowly, as slowly as a wolf stalks a wounded deer, the Lieutenant moved closer and closer to his unsuspecting target. Whether or not a gentleman should kill another while his literal pants are down was irrelevant.

To the drunken redcoat's credit, he wasn't completely foolish. The sounds of footsteps, muffled as they were by deerskins, drew his attention. He turned his head around partly to see a dark shape moving towards him. It was the last thing he ever saw. Before he could do so much as open his mouth, Holbrook had clamped his right hand over the soldier's mouth, using his leg to trip him, pulled him backward and down and then, using his left hand, shoved the knife into his spine just underneath his jaw. What Holbrook didn't know was that by severing the connection between the brain and the spinal cord, he had effectively cut off the oxygen supply to his target's brain. The savage twist of the knife simply finished the job. The redcoat spasmed once, twice, gurgled something faint, and then grew still, blood seeping steadily out from his wound. Holbrook kept his hand on the target's mouth until he was sure the redcoat was no longer going to make noise. The eyes of the redcoat stared back at him, confused, not fully comprehending how it was that he was dying. Fear and panic began to rise in him, but his limbs would no longer respond to commands from his brain. His eyes flicked around him, looking for something, anything to save him, but it was to no avail. His death, while still a minute off, was absolute. The minute passed with no fanfare, his brain deprived of oxygen as it was, simply turned off. Holbrook looked down at the boy, and he was a boy he realized. The handsome ruddy face was now lifeless, the brown eyes that no doubt broke hearts of every woman in London, were now dull and empty as a marble.

 _A pity._ A small voice in the Lieutenant's head said quietly, but there was nothing to it; this was war. He pulled the knife out, and the metal made a soft grating noise as it slid out from bone. Wiping the blood on the boy's clothes, he stood up and made his way back to his men.

"You good sir?" Sergeant Hartford asked.

Holbrook gave him a nod.

"Stand to, were moving."

"Aye sir."  
With that, the group of men continued their approach. The severity of the mission weighed on them. It had been several months since the "York Bombing" as the papers had taken to calling it. Public outcry at the carnage had been so severe that most of the safe havens the Patriots had used turned actively hostile. People began supplying information to the British Army in droves, with ever-increasing fervor. While most still didn't like British occupation, they disliked what had been done more. So the tables had turned, and now it was the rebels who were persona non grata in the very places they used to call home. Army Intelligence wasted no time capitalizing on this golden opportunity. Major Haddock had ordered multiple strikes based on intel gathered in the wake. The effect had been crippling. Army group west was now on the verge of collapse. 4,000 soldiers were battered and beleaguered and were running on fumes. They relied on supply lines to keep them stocked, supply lines that the British knew existed, but hadn't found. Except they had found them now all right. The farmer, who's house bordered the river that they used to ship supplies across, had lost a daughter in the bombing. Grief filled rage had marched him straight to his local garrison and inclined him to tell them he suspected rebel soldiers were using the river as a crossing point. In that one sentence, on that one day, the strangulation of the rebel army had begun.

This led to their current mission. These nine men had been hand picked and had spent the last month training for it and missions like it. The camp they were coming across was made by a platoon of men they had been tracking for the past week. Rebel command had leaked it that General Washington himself was going to be visiting Army Group West to reassure the men. The goal was to lure the head of British Army Intelligence out of New York, knowing that he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to capture Washington. The plan had worked successfully. An asset close to the major had fed him false intelligence that encouraged him to be where he was tonight, in the camp that these men were now heading for. They were a mere 15 yards away now. Holbrook ordered his men to break formation and acquire shooting points and clear fields of fire. The goal was to attack from a 270 degree angle, trapping and slaughtering everything within that field of fire. For this strike to be successful, they would need surprise on their side. If the enemy had time to prepare, eventually his greater numbers would begin to win out.

Each man carried a grenade on him, the size of a large pomegranate with a white wick sticking out of it. These weren't standard cannon shell grenades. They were hollowed out some, their insides filled small bits of metal. The idea was that once the canon ball erupted, it would project these tiny metal pieces into every direction, cutting to pieces whatever was in its path. Successful test runs had been completed only a few weeks before. The results looked promising, if the damage done to the scarecrows mirrored what was done to humans, there might not be enough of a human left to bury. The objective was to lob the first volley of grenades into the edge of the encampment, allowing the shrapnel to rip through the tents of the sleeping men. Those who survived the first wave would naturally move towards the center of the camp, next to the fire, and form a defensive perimeter. Exactly as British military doctrine said so. Not only would the fire kill their night vision, but it would also have the added benefit of grouping the remainder of the men together, allowing for the second volley of grenades to further decimate their ranks. Those that didn't die from the grenades would be cut down by the muskets of the nine men.

Sergeant Hartford signaled Holbrook that the men were in position. Holbrook looked on the forms of the sleeping men below and felt a measure of sympathy for them. Sympathy while he lit the fuse on his grenade.

The results were beyond expectations. The resulting explosion rocketed the camp, its sound seeming to echo endlessly through the forest. The sound of whistling bomb fragments was now etched indelibly etched into the mind of the survivors. The soldiers were instantly on their feet, screaming orders to get out of the tents and form a defensive perimeter. Just as planned. Most of then men were still sleep-addled, tripping over their feet and mismatched uniforms. They fumbled with their muskets trying to reload through the fog of exhaustion and adrenaline. Added to the mix was the sound of the wounded screaming. Holbrook watched this with grim satisfaction, he placed a calming hand on the soldier closest to him, felt the tension in the muscles. They had to time the second wave just right. The first four bombs had perhaps disabled 15 soldiers, leaving 25 left to engage. Still too many for his men to handle.

Holbrook watched and waited. _Now!_ He motioned for the second wave of grenades to be thrown. The effect was the total destruction of unit cohesion in the enemy force. Once everyone's ears stopped ringing, they realized, belatedly, that the forest was quiet. _Well damn, that worked out better than I thought._ Holbrook motioned for his men to move in and they began picking their way through the dead, sticking their bayonets into the corpses to make sure they were in fact corpses. At last they made it to the command tent. Major Haddock's body had not been found amongst the dead, but they could see small movement coming from inside the tent, as if someone was trying to load a musket quietly and quickly. Holbrook signaled for his men to from up on him. Two soldiers stood on either side of the tent, both grabbing a flap. On his command, they both yanked back the flaps simultaneously, and the three soldiers lined up in front of the tent fired at once. He never had a chance, his bodied thudded onto the floor, his chest a scarlet mess, musket falling to the side. He twitched once, and then fell still, never to move again.


	18. Chapter XVIII

It was funny how life changed from moment to moment. Most people go about their lives with a blissful ignorance that things will remain as they always have. Secure in the knowledge that predetermination had already laid out a path for them that they but only had to walk in. But not for her, in just a few days, she seemed to aged decades. But beneath the weary exterior lie, a strength who's origin was, for the moment, unknown. _If they remember me as a fool, it will be as a courageous fool._ Taking a deep breath, she sat up a little straighter. It seemed to her as if her entire senses had been scrubbed with sandpaper she was so alert about the world around her. She could feel each seam in the padded chair she was sitting in, she was the dirt beneath his fingernails, the clinking of plates downstairs. She was each breath of oxygen in every person's lungs, she was the very air carrying the tension from the man sitting across from her. She shifted to ease the burden off the numbness in her leg, and she was every pinprick of tingling sensation.

She was the vibration of the pendulum marking time with every thud. The continuum of its beat was her, and she was it. The more time that elapsed, it seemed she became less and less of herself. The flickering flames of the fireplace voraciously devouring the dry, wood was simply a reflection of her soul, alive and burning with conflict. Every hiss and popping crack of the wood succumbing to the intense heat and further feeding the fire that was burning was another part of herself being reduced to ashes, to a memory. The fire was her, and she was the fire. She composed herself even further, with each beat of her heart, her resolve hardened, with each breath she focused her goal more firmly in her mind, with each beat of her heart she gripped tighter the future. Until, until nothing remained of who she once was.

"Where would you like me to start?"

00000

Lieutenant Holbrook's excitement died in his throat. The body that lay before them was most certainly dead, but it wasn't the target. Some of the men swore while others eyed the forest suspiciously, as if Redcoats were going to appear out of the darkness like apparitions. Holbrook gripped his musket so tightly his knuckles were starting to turn white. The consequences of Major Haddock's not in the tent were beginning to dawn on him, and it filled him with such a sense of dread his body couldn't decide if it wanted to vomit or collapse.

"Search the camp!" His voice was guttural with rage.

The soldiers hurried to obey and began a methodical sweep of every tent and corpse. The sergeant and the Lieutenant were left to look at each other, both pondering how the events of today would unfold. After a few minutes that felt like seconds, the soldiers reported back that all the dead were accounted for. He wasn't here. Holbrook swallowed his emotions and surveyed their handiwork.

"On your feet. We. Are. Leaving."

00000

He looked up at her, the surprise he was feeling evident on his face. The voice that had addressed him was a far cry from the one at the beginning of their session. He studied her closely, trying to ascertain what could have prompted such changes in the short time they had spent together. But there was nothing to be found, her face might as well have been made of stone for all the emotion it displayed.

"Maybe we should start at the beginning."

She nodded briskly, "I first established contact with Major Haddock-"

"The beginning, I said. Tell me about your parents." He cut her off with a clinical voice, as cold and dispassionate as she'd been moments earlier.

She visibly stuttered at the interruption and took a moment to compose herself before going.

"You wish me to speak of my parents?" Her voice was under rigid control.

He nodded while shuffling through his papers. When she failed to speak, he looked back up at her.

"Why?"

He took note that the question might as well have been a snarl, for she had bitten the word out between tightly clenched jaws.

"Your obvious anger is precisely why I find the matter so interesting. Your parents seem to be the reason behind your involvement with His Majesty's hated enemies. These rebels, the so-called patriots. If you are to gain our trust and prove your loyalty to the sovereign, you must convince me that you don't share their delusions."

He paused to see how she would react to his choice of words. Her body was still under rigid control, but her eyes had gone glacially cold. And when she spoke, the undercurrents of rage rippled.

"You don't believe the Irish haven't been treated by the English in mutual good faith?"

Her voice was a quiet, dangerous whisper.

"Irrelevant, I'm afraid. The Irish are subjects of His Majesty and will behave as such or face the consequences."

He imagined if he were to face a tiger in the wild, it would look at him as she did then. Her eyes were empty, utterly devoid of life and emotion. He gazed into them, and they might as well have been marble. He saw neither anger nor hatred, simply the cold, unrelenting, uncaring fact that she wished him dead. He smiled at her, it was cute, as if this petite blond could kill him.

"It won't change anything. Killing me, even if you could, wouldn't change anything. Not for your people, and not for you."

He had to admit he was enjoying himself. When he had first received this assignment, he was shocked that she hadn't been hung. But after meeting her he understand now why Haddock was reluctant. Killing something this beautiful should be a crime. Oh, the things he'd do with her, but the Major had been explicit, no one was to lay so much as a finger on her. He smiled too himself at what that must mean. His smiled wilted on his lips when he saw her smiling back at him.

"Do you find something amusing?"

Her smile grew. She seemed to ponder over the words as if they struck her as odd.

"Amusing?"

"You are smiling. That typically indicates mirth, so I say again, do you find something amusing?"

The smile that danced on her lips didn't quite make it to her eyes. "No, nothing amusing, just that it can be useful to be underestimated."

The silence that hung before them seemed to go on forever, untouched. She didn't seem troubled by it, and his pride wouldn't let him make the first move. So stayed there they did, not speaking. Her unmoving and blinking periodically, him with his legs cross tapping a crescendo with his pen. They stayed like that, locked in an eternal battle of wills until a rapping on the door caused him to jump slightly and her to swivel towards the door. Seeing his reaction out of the corner of her eye, she smirked at him. Flustered, he stood angrily and stalked towards the door.

"What. Is it."

He regretted his tone of voice when he realized he was speaking to Major Haddock. For his part, the Major simply raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, forgive me, Major, I wasn't expecting you." Shutting the door behind him, he stepped into the hallway.

"Report your progress." If the Major took any offense, he didn't show it.

"She's holding secrets, of that I'm certain. She displays a chronic distrust of the British and of our empire, she's aggressive and unruly…"

He trailed off when he saw the corners of the Major's mouth turn upward.

"Forgive me, doctor, but if that's all you've discovered you haven't progressed very far." He was chuckling now. "Tell me, in the weeks you've been having your little 'sessions,' have you actually ascertained anything of value. Anything I or anyone who's spent five minutes with her couldn't tell you?"

The doctor sniffed in indignation. "If you had not chosen to belittle me Major and impede my work at every turn, I would've made more progress. Perhaps you don't appreciate my skill, but there are those among the High Command who do. What's more, this little _pet_ of yours is facing the noose. Whether or not that pretty little neck of hers gets broken by the hangman is based of my recommendation. I don't believe the major needs me to remind him of the potential blowback that could come on his career."

Henry's smile hadn't wavered. "I do believe you need to be alive to threaten me. Correct me if I'm wrong, but we are stationed in a battle zone, and recent events have demonstrated the enemy's abilities to strike behind our protective walls. It would be so unfortunate if you were to be found dead due to falling debris, stray musket shot, or having your throat slit from ear to ear." The smile disappeared, and the green forest of the major's eyes burned with fury.

"Or perhaps due to the restriction of the harbor thanks to our naval presence you partook of some less than sanitary seafood, suffered food poisoning the doctors have yet to diagnose, fell victim, and expired less than twelve hours later."

He placed one hand on the doctor's shoulder and gripped it so tightly he winced. "Or, you can wrap up your time here and declare Miss Hofferson of no threat to the Empire. She, being an operative for Army intelligence, is in fact a loyal servant the King and warrants no further suspicion. "

The doctor had wilted before the bridled fury in Henry's eyes. Swallowing hard and taking several steps back, he nodded his head up and down as if he were still a schoolboy.

"O- of course, Major. I will make my recommendation at once."

Henry smiled at him and hooked his thumbs on his belt. "You do that."


	19. Chapter XIX

**Valley Forge**

 **Winter of 1778**

 **Washington's Camp**

 ****I've always been a Star Wars fan and the last four episodes of The Clone Wars has me feeling some type of way. I've left some dialogue Easter eggs. Enjoy!****

"A contingent of our forces are concentrated here, in the woods of northeastern section of Valley Forge. They will serve as a forward operating base and as an early warning in the event of any British incursions. This winter will be harsh, but we will survive. For if we fail, the tyranny of British yoke will once again be thrust upon the American people, and they will spend their remaining days in darkness and slavery."

General Washington looked at the faces of the officers standing before him; they were a sober lot. All of them had lost men under their command to engagements with the enemy, and all of them bore the scars of those engagements as well.

"It will be hard, so tell your men to strap on their boots and get to work. Tell them that the sacrifices they make here will be etched through blood into our glorious history. Reduce rations, maintain discipline, and we will emerge from this stronger, refined, and a terror to our foes."

With a nod and a final word, they were dismissed and released to their duties.

"General Arnold, stay a moment if you will."

The other officers looked at one another, their faces a perfect mask of cool detachment, as Benedict removed himself from the line of departing officers and ambled back towards his chair. Within a few moments, they were completely alone, staring at each other in silence for a few more seconds.

"You wanted to see me, your excellency."

The tone was suitably reverential for a subordinate addressing a superior, but Washington could detect the underlying traces of resentment bubbling beneath the surface. With a resigned sigh, he braced himself for the confrontation.

"It's been brought to my attention there have been some, shall we say, improprieties regarding your activities in Philadelphia. Especially regarding the Shippen household."

Washington observed Arnold stiffen at his remarks, but the other man made no comments.

"Look, Arnold, I don't enjoy this any more than you do, but the congress has been nagging me like a bunch of old women. They've threatened to stall war allotments unless I've come to a decision."

"Have you." The voice was cold and frigid as a December night.

Washington sighed and took to pacing around the room. This was all happening at the wrong time. Too many men had died, too many losses had been sustained, and disunity and rampant self-interest were in danger of destroying the fledgling republic. And to make matters worse, he had errant generals either actively suborning the war effort or, in this case, behaving indecently.

As Washington chewed on the issue, the more his ire grew, and the faster he paced.

"Damn you, man!"

"What?'

"I said damn you, man! We are engaged in a fight, a war of momentous proportions, and you think now! Now! Of all times! Is the time to go philandering as such? Or is the illegal seizure of private property not sufficient?"

It was improper for a superior officer to speak as such, but the frustration of it all had finally succeeded in wearing down his decorum.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

Benedict was now shaking with either rage of the effort of not breaking with military form.

"Permission to speak freely."

"Granted."

It was as if a dam had broken suddenly and violently.

"You. Have. Always undermined me!" Benedict's diction became animated, and he was spraying spittle.

He threw his cane aside and crossed the difference between them so that they were standing face to face.

"I-" he jabbed a finger at his chest, "I secured the victory at Saratoga! Not Gates! We stand here amidst my achievement, not his!"

"If only saying it would make it so! I've read the reports, you disobeyed the orders of a superior and recklessly endangered the lives of your men. Of course, you were punished. What if all my officers acted in such a fashion? We wouldn't have an army left."

Arnold looked as if he had been struck.

"The British army was on the verge of overwhelming us. I took command of a group of American soldiers whom I led in an assault against the British line. It was my attack that threw the enemy into disarray, and it was my efforts that contributed greatly to the victory. All this while Gates was playing with himself in the rear!"

It was a battle of wills, and neither of them was willing to give ground first. They would've stayed that way, locked into their invisible struggle, if one of Washington's aides hadn't barged through the tent flaps.

"Sir!"

"What. Is it?"

The words were spat through tightly clenched teeth.

"Sir, FOB Sparrow reports enemy troop sightings and they are requesting permission disengage."

This brought both men out of their trance and to full alert. Washington snapped his head to look at the aide and then back at Arnold.

"Has this been confirmed?"

The adjutant looked to Washington for permission to address Major General Arnold.

"Sir we only have what the courier brought. We don't have the authority to send scouting parties without permission."

"Damn. They must've stumbled upon them by accident. What rubbish luck. Send the courier. Instruct FOB Sparrow to pack up it supplies and return to base."

"Belay that!"

General Washington's voice cut through the chatter, stopping everyone in their tracks.

"Let us think this through. What are the chances of British infantry finding a discreet camp in the middle of the woods, in the dead of winter? Furthermore, who in their right mind would send soldiers out in the winter to look for a needle in a haystack?"

As he spoke he moved around the tent, the physical action helping him gather his thoughts.

General Arnold's rebuttal was quick to come.

"This is hardly unheard of, Major Haddock has been doing this for almost a year. We need to act quickly if we are to bring our soldiers back so as to form a cohesive front. Isolated cells can and will be destroyed. We-"

Washington held up his hand to cut him off.

"No! No. Major Haddock has only ever sent hunter-killer teams out when he has actionable evidence of a target location. We know that, that means this team of Brits knew, knew before hand, where to find our operating base."

The words and their implication began slowly working its way through the officers assembled before him.

"The question at hand is, how did they know the location of our FOB?"

They all looked at one another, all of them pondering over the implications of the question. The answer was obvious, but no one wanted to give voice to it. General Arnold broke the silence.

"It means we have a spy."


	20. Chapter XX

****According to British Propaganda, its been alleged that British POWs were subjected to torture at the hands of the barbaric like Americans. It was alleged that they learned such practices from the "savage" Indians. This is my take on what that might have looked like****

 **Farmhouse**

 **New York countryside**

 **Winter, 1778**

The officer crinkled his nose at the repugnant smell and wondered how much longer he'd have to stand here. His feet and back ached, he was hungry, and he hadn't had anything to drink in over an hour. His shirt stuck to his skin from the sweat and he'd like to bathe. All that and he hadn't even got to the mental exhaustion this type of assignment requires. As an intelligence officer he understood the necessity of what was being done.

He didn't particularly enjoy it, but it was a job that needed to be done. Even if sometimes it made it hard to look at his reflection in the mirror. On his weaker days, he wondered what his devout Protestant parents would think about their son being so integral with killing and suffering. If his little sister would be as proud of him if she knew what he had done to ensure the survival of the Republic?

The hoarse whisper startled the officer from his introspection.

"Please. I-I. Water, please."

Coming closer he observed the subject. He was tall and well built, though you couldn't tell that now, for his ribs showed even through his shirt. His eyes were sunken in and hollow, his lips cracked from dehydration, and his face covered in lacerations. He was dangling in what they were calling "stress positions". Wrapped around both his wrist were heavy metal chains attached to a lever on the floor and hooks in the ceiling. The lever was used to determine the angle and intensity of the hanging. In this manner they could lock the arm and the upper body of the subject in a position that was uncomfortable after only a few minutes. After a few hours...agony.

David, that was the subjects name, has been in this position for over 4 hours. Even though they were enemies, one had to admire his resolve. They had many positions, and the one they had chosen today was sardonically called "Messiah". David was hanging from the ceiling, his arms spread out on both sides as if he were in the opening acts of supplication. His arms were inclined to the point that his wrist were above his head and to the side. This put an unhealthy amount of pressure on the elbow joints and arm muscles. They enhanced the discomfort by having him elevated a few inches above the floor; his toes just barely brushing the surface. All this created not only pain but discomfort.

And that was the point. Everything about this process was to instill a sense of helplessness into the subject. To remind the subject that its past life was over and how it's future turned out was in its captor's hands.

"What was that?" He asked, not moving from his position.

David let out a shuddering cough that left blood spittle on the floor. "Water, please."

"Oh, you're thirsty. Is that it?" This too was part of the process.

The room they were on was designed to trap heat. In the floor beneath this one was a fire that released its heat into a shaft leading into the room they were currently in. Combine that with the naturally humid heat from the continent and you have a mix between a sauna and a desert. He nodded weakly and the officer rolled his shoulders.

"Well, you know the drill. You're nice to me, and I'm nice to you."

He dangled there for a few more moments before whispering something quietly. The officer had to move closer so that he could hear better.

"What do you want to know?" The words seem to cause him physical pain.

"A few weeks ago a strike team went into the forest to eliminate an enemy stronghold. The British weren't supposed to know we were coming. A massacre is what the high command called it. It was a massacre all right. Except the soldiers getting torn to ribbons were Patriots! My countrymen!"

When talking to a subject, in order to confuse and keep it on edge, sudden changes in volume and intensity is recommended. Grabbing David by the sides of his head, he shook him firmly. "How did they know David? Huh?! How did they know we were coming?"

"I don't know! I swear to you, I don't know!"

He started kicking his legs uselessly.

"Don't lie to me David. We observed you entering and exiting the Swan Manor carrying, messages for the enemy. Do you understand? We know you're an agent! Now, how many others are in your cell?"

"I don't know! "

The officer let go of him with force.

"I think you need a reminder of the rules here David." He started shaking so badly the chains rattled.

"You lie to me, I hurt you."

He motioned for the soldiers standing in the corner to come forward.

"C'mon, let's go. David's thirsty."

"I don't know! Please, I don't!"

His cries were now reaching a frantic high.

"I warned you David!"

One soldier came forward and lowered the lever, bringing him down to a standing position. The other went to the gallon drum of water and filled up a bucket. Handing it to the officer, he stood back.

The officer pulled out a rag and a hood. Then, with a smooth motion, he placed his left hand behind David's head, kicked his legs out from underneath him, pushed on his chest with his right hand, and then used his own weight to slam him into the floor on his back. The soldier behind David quickly placed the hood on his head.

"No! Nooo!"

His screams were that of a wild animal in fear.

"This is what happens David! When you lie to me, I hurt you!"

Kneeling on his chest, he wrapped the thick rag tightly to his face. Taking the pitcher from the other soldier, he repositioned himself so that he was directly over David.

This particular method was arguably the most traumatic. They were about to simulate a drowning. Causing the brain to go into the primal state of mind where the animalistic instinct to survive lives, and where soul-crushing fear also resides.

Gripping his chin with his free hand, the officer poured a steady stream of water onto his face.

"When was the last time you saw Major Haddock! How did he know where to look? Where is his information coming from?"

The sounds of gurgling and choking filled the room as David thrashed on the floor helplessly, his legs kicking spastically. He was dying, he knew it, he could feel the water entering his lungs causing him to drown. It felt like he was both on fire and freezing, and the fear he felt wasn't easily transcribed into words.

After 20 seconds the officer stopped pouring and removed both the rag and the hood. The soldier placed both hands firmly on the side of David's head, forcing him to swallow the water before he would be able to breathe. He coughed violently, inhaled deeply, then proceeded to cough violently some more. After a few dry heaves he began vomiting the water back up.

"Get him up. Get him back up!"

They quickly strung him back up into his stress position. He hung there, head dangling, soaked with water, sobs racking his body. The officer lifted his chin and stared at him.

"You're a fighter, I respect that. But you'll break. Everybody, breaks. It's only a matter of time."

He let his head drop, and tossing the pitcher aside, they all left the room.


	21. Chapter XXI

It had now been more than two hours since they had strung David back up.

"Okay. We're back in." Nods all around.

They opened the door and entered the darkness. David was exactly where they had left him, dangling from the ceiling in tattered clothes. What was surprising is that he had somehow managed to fall asleep.

The sound of the door clanging had awakened him with a start. He started to protest his innocence but petered off. Richard was standing in front of him with a mug of orange juice and a plate of corned beef, a slice of cheese, and bread.

"Oh good, you're awake," He moved closer. "I was worried we might have woken you."

The look on his face would've been comical if it were so macabre.

"You hungry? I know you are. The food in here sucks."

They stared at each other for a moment. The silence between them stretching on for what seemed like eons, even though it couldn't have been more than five seconds.

"You know what, let's get you down for a bit." Richard motioned for his men to lax the chains.

They came forward and gently lowered him down onto the floor. McCormick brought David a chair, and once he was seated, Richard gave him the mug of orange juice. David sucked it down rapidly, draining it in a matter of seconds. Then, he gave him the small plate of food.

Ravenously, he dug in. For several seconds the only sound was of him tearing into the food. He finished, and he unashamedly licked the bowl clean.

"Thank you." He murmured.

"You're welcome."

Sighing, Richard leaned forward on his elbows.

"David, we don't like treating you like this, but you have to cooperate."

He stood and proceeded to stretch his shoulders. He picked up the bucket and placed it next to the container of water.

"I'll tell you what. You give me the location of one, just one weapon's cache, and I'll, and I'll get you a warm blanket and a proper meal. What do you say?"

This was a vital part of the process. Punishment without reward is pointless. The subject needs to feel like he has something to strive for. If he complies, he will get rewarded. Prolonged and acute pain will erode even the strongest of loyalties.

David was clearly warring with himself, but after a moment, he let out a trembling sigh.

"I don't know anything."

The silence in the room that followed could've cut meat.

"Okay. Okay," Richard moved forward and pried from David the mug.

"That's okay."

"Please, I don't know-"

Whatever he was going to say was cut short as Richard kicked the chair out from underneath his feet. The others in the room proceeded with their functions. McCormick filled the bucket with water, and Jameson got the hood and rag.

"We did try to be nice, David." It was hard to speak, considering how hard he was fighting to keep him pinned.

With considerable effort, they managed to get the hood over his head and pressed the rag to his face.

"Last chance David, this is your last chance to help yourself. Where is the next attack's coming? What does the prince have planned?"

No reply. Growling, Richard started pouring the water. Again, David thrashed and gurgled violently. While the subject is undergoing to the dehumanization process, repeatedly stating the means to salvation is crucial. The subject needs to understand that the fear and pain can stop if he complies.

"Give me one location, and I will stop this!" Sounds of choking. "Give me one location, and I will stop this!"

After what seemed like an unusually long twenty seconds, they pulled the rag from his face. He vomited up water and coughed severely before breathing in deeply. While this was going on, McCormick refilled the bucket.

"Again!" Richard snapped

"No!" David was desperately trying to free himself.

"Give me one name, and I will stop this.

They pressed the rag back up against his face and continued to pour water.

"Wait! Hold up," Richard motioned for them to stop. "He's trying to say something."

"Spies." David was speaking softly.

Richard's blood turned to ice, and he did his utmost to keep his emotions under control

"What do you mean? Haddock has spies in our camp?"

David hung his head and drew in a ragged breath. He was beaten and bloodied, dehydrated and exhausted. With an exercise of will, he raised his head to look his tormentors in the eyes. He laughed spittle and shook his head.

"No, but you have spies in New York. We've found some of them."

Richard's mind was racing. The only spies who had direct knowledge of the inner workings of the army were scattered throughout the continent. The only spies in New York who had direct knowledge were even fewer. Dread began to coil and wrap itself around his spine and he worked to keep his emotions under wraps. The only spy with direct knowledge of Washington's camp and was located in New York, and was close enough to the Major was Astrid. It had been months since she submitted an intel report. He had quieted his anxiety by chalking the disruption up to increased security measures implemented by the Major, but could it be that the reports stopped because she was captured?

"Explain."

David laughed and spat a glob of blood at their feet.

"We placed the Loyalist Tavern under surveillance; we long suspected it was a hive of rebel activity."

With each word, the drumming in Richard's ears grew louder and louder.

"With such a large concentration of army officers eating, sleeping, and drinking there, it seemed a logical choice for a clever rebel spy to make a nest."

David broke off speaking as a series of coughs racked his body, and after a few more seconds of hacking, he again sucked in a deep, ragged breath.

"One day, we noticed a woman had been hired. A blonde little thing with an Irish accent. We observed her for more than a month, and then one day, we finally caught a break. She finally broke her pattern."

Richard was barely breathing now.

"We followed her into the woods hoping to discover her cutout, thus proving she was indeed a spy. But all she did was rage against a tree with an ax for an hour. After that, she went back to her place. "

Richard almost sighed with relief, but he cut off the noise and regained his composure before David could notice.

"We thought nothing more of her, until..."

His words trailed off as exhaustion began taking hold of him.

"Until? Until what David?" Richard grabbed his head and shook him vigorously.

Before David could speak, the door burst open with violence.

"Enough!" The voice cracked like a whip through the air. "Release him at once."

Richard looked at General Arnold in blatant surprise, mouth hanging open.

"Sir, what are you-,"

He broke off and tried again.

"Sir, please, we've almost-"

"Major Tallmadge, was the order unclear, or do you simply wish to be executed for insubordination."

Richard, Tallmadge, flinched, and stared at Arnold. He stared back at him.

"I asked you a question, Major."

Arnold's voice was glacially cold.

"No, sir."

Major Tallmadge motioned for David to be cut loose. Arnold stepped forward and appraised the situation; disgust etched on his face. With a shake of his head, he addressed the bruised officer.

"Lieutenant Bragg, you have my sincerest apologies for how you've been treated. Rest assured, your nightmare is over."


End file.
